While writing my "hey" back, I thought about my own bit of poetry. I have two poems of which I am sincerely proud. I've written few poems, if any, since college. How would I describe my poetry? To my acquaintance I wrote that it was a mass of maudlin free-verse too narcissistic to share. I checked--that's the definition of high school poetry. I can't share any embarrassing bits, though, because it was all lost in the fire.
When I say lost, I don't mean totally burned. That would have been better.
I still feel an echo of the sharp scent that burned my sinus passages when we entered the blackened remains of our apartment. There was a blue tarp over the roof of the living room and kitchen, casting an odd glow while sealing out the sunshine. The blackness of the rooms swallowed any stray light into its inky nothingness. We borrowed work lamps that we might dig through the debris of charred drywall, broken mirrors, and a carpet of ruined books.
|Kitchen from Living Room|
The bedroom and the office had piles of burnt objects taunting us with the possibility of being saved. In the office five or six bookcases worth of sopping wet books, twelve ruined computers, and melted plastic bins with precious papers oozed all over the floor. It was necessary to tread on our belongings. The effort of digging through was too much. Very little escaped that room.
|Nightstand with poetry|
|Closet that housed photos.|