Sunday, November 06, 2011

Caroline Young


Because birds do not wait for insurance agents,
I assess

the mother as she settles on the Elm
eyes over broken limbs

drops and bombs, sizing twigs by beak.

Dwelling under fallen trees
her silence

keeps things simple. The adjuster whys over
every brick, measures life

in shingles, chimney, sheetrock, boards and nails.
I review my coverage.

Overhead, the harbingers drift.
Beneath, the street life lies: eyes negotiate

lines down, sidewalks strewn in reconstruction flyers
remains are not to be removed

by firemen, lawyers, photographers, anyman
with a chainsaw.

I count torn gutters to resettle.

Where trees once lined the street – a sky
beneath, a row of brittle homes

strip-searched by the storm.

Amid the rubble, nests are born
of insulation, splintered beams.

Caroline Young has grown increasingly tired of our culture’s persistent cat/dog debate. Both animals are masters of the kill shake, so what is there to discuss? If someone wants to write a poem about this, she will read it. Otherwise, she’ll just keep putting her faith in trees. Thanks for reading the work.