by Joan Mazza
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The morning after the storm. Photo tweeted by @miguelmarquez. |
to those many people who lost
their homes, flattened and inundated
by Hurricane Ian’s smack down.
To people sifting through mud
and debris to salvage what’s useful,
from homes without roofs.
The videos and photos are published
of houses floating away, smashed.
Pets gone. My heart goes out
to the people of Pakistan weeks
after one third of their country
was flooded and now their children
are dying of cholera. Swathes
of forests have burned all over
the world. Whales are eating
plastic because the ocean is full
of it. Covid isn’t over. People
are dying every day, gasping
for breath. My heart goes out
to those too cold or too hot, breathing
mold or dust or smoke and ash.
For my friends Shaun and Karen
in a marathon to outrun cancer.
For Charlotte who said goodbye to her
beloved hound Maggie after sixteen
years. For everyone suffering
as humans always have in a world
that throws us beauty and abundance,
love, pleasure, and plush comforts,
leaves us anticipating, eager for more,
and then snatches it all away.
My heart goes out to you, to us.
Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist and psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self, and her poetry has appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, The Comstock Review, Poet Lore, Slant, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia and writes every day.