by Paula J. Lambert
Dame Maggie Smith died
the same night Hurricane Helene swept through
the American South, which means nothing
except that our hearts can be broken
so many different ways. Eight people died
in Acapulco from Hurricane John.
Eric Adams pleaded not guilty
while the still-rushing waters flooded
through Asheville, North Carolina. It’s a break
from all the news elsewhere. That’s how we roll,
unable to keep more than three or four or five
catastrophes foremost in our minds. Breaking news
splinters our brains by the second: Gaza, Ukraine,
the guy who wants to be president again
finagling himself into the worst of it,
one outrageous claim after another
designed to keep our tail lights spinning:
T-boned by the news. Whiplashed
while so many suffer the slings and arrows
of the most benign living: sprained wrists,
a broken tooth, kids not doing their homework,
pot roast simmered dry when Mother forgot, again,
she had something on the stove. Who’s taking her in—
or shouldering the blame for sending her away?
When the flood waters rise (they’re always rising)
we tend to what we must. When the waters recede,
we turn to the Dames, the Denzels,
to Sandra Bullock and the Great British bakers
to keep ourselves going, one step at a time,
one eye, always, toward the drought.
the same night Hurricane Helene swept through
the American South, which means nothing
except that our hearts can be broken
so many different ways. Eight people died
in Acapulco from Hurricane John.
Eric Adams pleaded not guilty
while the still-rushing waters flooded
through Asheville, North Carolina. It’s a break
from all the news elsewhere. That’s how we roll,
unable to keep more than three or four or five
catastrophes foremost in our minds. Breaking news
splinters our brains by the second: Gaza, Ukraine,
the guy who wants to be president again
finagling himself into the worst of it,
one outrageous claim after another
designed to keep our tail lights spinning:
T-boned by the news. Whiplashed
while so many suffer the slings and arrows
of the most benign living: sprained wrists,
a broken tooth, kids not doing their homework,
pot roast simmered dry when Mother forgot, again,
she had something on the stove. Who’s taking her in—
or shouldering the blame for sending her away?
When the flood waters rise (they’re always rising)
we tend to what we must. When the waters recede,
we turn to the Dames, the Denzels,
to Sandra Bullock and the Great British bakers
to keep ourselves going, one step at a time,
one eye, always, toward the drought.
Paula J. Lambert of Columbus, Ohio, has published several collections of poetry including As If This Did Not Happen Every Day (Sheila-Na-Gig 2024) and Uncertainty (The Only Hope We Have) (Bottlecap 2023). Her work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.
