by Anne Harding Woodworth
a prayer of sorts, Tuesday, February 7, 2023, 4:30 a.m.
In the quiet of this early morning, he’s left our bed
and walked into the hall, then to the kitchen
probably to get a “swig of klim,” as he calls it.
I move my foot over to his side just to feel the warmth
he’s left behind. At that moment, I know how survivors
in Turkey and Syria are shivering, reaching for warmth
where there is none, no lingering vestige of a spouse,
parent, child, no body next to them that said, “I’ll be right back.”
Buildings have fallen, din deafened, and then silent,
as snow passes into illicit spaces, upside down rooms,
and chairs drop into cold chasms of confusion,
terror, and pain with no one there to explain
what has happened. This is nightmare, a woman thinks,
held down in darkness between two concrete blocks
with one leg bent the wrong way. I tell her I am coming
with a blanket and lamp, but that too is dream
and will never happen. When he comes back to bed,
sweet-smelling of milk, I move closer to him
for his warmth, seeking comfort and more air
for those still breathing, buried deep in the rubble.