Emergence: Hurricane
by Gabriella Brand
Where did the tortoise go when the winds blew? Did he pull his scaly head inside his shell and ride it out?
Where did the tortoise go when the rains came? Did he get plunged down the ravine like a life-less stone?
When the dock sank, when the church lost its roof, when the porch of the market was sucked into the salt pond…
Where was the tortoise?
Did he dig down into the earth itself, his mouth bloated with mud, his small heart nesting against the roots of the baobab?
Afterwards, no one thought about him. Not at first.
Not when there were men stunned and peeing their khaki shorts, women wandering in circles twisting their hair, unable to speak.
Not even later when folks began making their way through the jungle of downed wires, splintered shutters, hijacked hulls. Now and then, coming upon surprises.
A toy bear, soggy, but recognizable. A wedding dress, its lace intact. A bottle of Heineken, unbroken.
But where was the tortoise?
No one knew. No one cared.
And then, in time, everyone lining up like dung beetles, seeking water, signals, familiar faces, those chalky packets of Red Cross food, ever-welcome, even so.
And little by little, a carapace of the old life emerged from the rubble, and the tortoise emerged too.
He was last seen crawling along the Coral Bay Road, his house on his back. Slow as usual, but undeterred.
Gabriella Brand’s poetry and prose has appeared in over fifty publications, including Gyroscope Review and The First Line. A language teacher by profession, Gabriella divides her time between Quebec and Connecticut. She also serves as a speaker at the UU Fellowship of Saint John, United States Virgin Islands.
by Gabriella Brand
Where did the tortoise go when the winds blew? Did he pull his scaly head inside his shell and ride it out?
Where did the tortoise go when the rains came? Did he get plunged down the ravine like a life-less stone?
When the dock sank, when the church lost its roof, when the porch of the market was sucked into the salt pond…
Where was the tortoise?
Did he dig down into the earth itself, his mouth bloated with mud, his small heart nesting against the roots of the baobab?
Afterwards, no one thought about him. Not at first.
Not when there were men stunned and peeing their khaki shorts, women wandering in circles twisting their hair, unable to speak.
Not even later when folks began making their way through the jungle of downed wires, splintered shutters, hijacked hulls. Now and then, coming upon surprises.
A toy bear, soggy, but recognizable. A wedding dress, its lace intact. A bottle of Heineken, unbroken.
But where was the tortoise?
No one knew. No one cared.
And then, in time, everyone lining up like dung beetles, seeking water, signals, familiar faces, those chalky packets of Red Cross food, ever-welcome, even so.
And little by little, a carapace of the old life emerged from the rubble, and the tortoise emerged too.
He was last seen crawling along the Coral Bay Road, his house on his back. Slow as usual, but undeterred.
Gabriella Brand’s poetry and prose has appeared in over fifty publications, including Gyroscope Review and The First Line. A language teacher by profession, Gabriella divides her time between Quebec and Connecticut. She also serves as a speaker at the UU Fellowship of Saint John, United States Virgin Islands.