Postcard, framed by crepe myrtle blooms and thunder
I too left a country of rain for a country of apples.
I too had excess baggage to declare, most of it packed with salt.
At the turnstile when I dropped my coins I heard the first volley of thunder.
The sound reminded me of the day our town was riven by an earthquake.
The house I had built just months before opened like a book down the middle.
Thunder reminds me to go back to that page and read where I left off.
There was a room overlooking the yard and the neighborhood’s crowded
There were tin roofs over which birds scattered leaflets of wings at dusk.
Where they went, no one thought to ask.
Under rectangles of mosquito netting, we took children to bed.
The hush just after the moment of falling asleep was meant to usher in dreams.
A pink and purple riot of blooms encircled the windows.
In the right kinds of quiet, their rustling resembled the undercurrent in some
In the early mornings, after the hardest rain, a flood of papery asterisks stippled
Their surfaces looked almost luminous, like the insides of bells or the faint
filigree around certain sources of light.
~after Cecilia Woloch