Octogenarian disaster, nonagenarian disaster,
how the flood or fire goes on living long after
water has dried or embers have been stamped out.
The trees remember burning, the riverbanks doubt
they will ever be less muddy. Disruption scrapes
the record, records the damage its claw makes
in you, makes of you a Victrola with a warped song.
As puberty changes the voice, permanently, as long
as you sing you’ll carry the dog bite, the heart break,
the heavy box. Ouchy house guests accumulate,
until you are crowded as Mt. Olympus with the gods
of your grief, planting storms and lightning rods.