Miracle
Miracle
The people need to get their power back.
All of this anger is beside the point.
So what else can he do but mount the joints
Of the electric pole that’s still intact
this morning, three steel crossarms at the top,
a crucifix in concrete. Around him loose
wires dangle in leaden clouds of ash and soot,
plus rain. He’s used to rain. His tennis shoes
seek pockets in the stone as he ascends;
a safety rope tied to his belt reminds him
of what’s below. Now everything depends
on him to generate what used to flow
everywhere, in lamps and laptops and rice cookers,
ventilators, freezers and thermostats,
water pumps, alarm clocks, fans and chargers,
email, cellphones and WhatsApp chats.
Around him oil and water mix with air:
Who builds a girls’ school on a navy base?
Who bombs that base when girls are playing there?
A black rain falls; he rubs it off his face …
