Volume 25, Number 4


the radio fuzzes out in small bursts
seizes our breath with each roar
the president's voice comes on
more distant than a physical thousand miles

~sorry, he says
sorry to those who survived
sorry for our terrible losses
his heart hurts for us~

we've done the math
counted the canned food
rationed water

~help is on the way, he says~

our faces lit by eerie flashlights
hair already falls out in clumps
rawness freckles our faces
teeth wiggle like toes in wet sand

~he's sorry~

—Beth Cato