how everything turns away / Quite leisurely from the disaster
—W. H. Auden, “Musée des Beaux Arts”
It takes seconds to drown, but we’re not
there yet. First count how many seconds
to blind my eyes, wrenched hydrants
in the hay in the barn. Hundreds. More
before wrecking our cake and our endless
electric slide, thousands the night before
Thanksgiving Day, awaiting close family
exchanges to end me like a pawn.
You know what Galileo said, how objects
fall the same in a vacuum. True whether
you believe in vacuums, or turn away
to pick up after the dog or to replace
baking soda in the fridge when it’s old
and no one is grateful. If you want to talk
about drowning, let’s root through
the false cold air when the light for
the door flicks on. Here an expired
purchase, there another. Do you see us
flailing in white, far too young? Here
whether you see it or not, splashing
like perishable milk in a drain.
