Fire, destruction
Fear — so much fear
and the stench, burnt wood, foul melting plastics
seared flesh
turns my stomach
The neighborhood is flattened
families huddled at
the church
the school
any other place that still stands
Holding each other
Holding to all they have left

I can’t find my family
they are not in the pews
they are not tucked into cots in the school cafetorium
they are not at the neighborhood Target
(as if a building with a giant Bullseye could somehow
survive what happened, whatever happened.)

I have no memory of this
this event whose aftermath assaults my senses, my soul
it’s trauma, I tell myself I will remember soon
“no” says Viggo Mortensen
“and that is not a siren– that is your alarm.”

And I wake
the privilege of waking from a bad dream
rather than waking to just another Wednesday in the world