Listen to this poem
The vacuum-packed clothes are a clue, the one you’re told before returning:
“They have to seal them up to clean them off, suck the dust into shatterproof bins.”
You’ll try not to think you’re being accused of anything, of leaving a window open
on a warm September morning, just wide enough for the poison to slip in for someone
else to deal with. It’s not as if you should suspect buildings of collapse, right,
even after they’ve been run through? And yet the astronaut footprints
just in front of the refrigerator remind you of how little a hero you’ve become.
Cynthia Arrieu-King
Sarah Schwartz &Sandra Santana
