Interim
BY CAROLINA HOTCHANDANI
Awaiting the new regime, we remember
the season the winds
toppled a power line in the neighborhood.
We waited—took note
of changes:
A raccoon appeared on the street—
flattened—maybe by a car, maybe
by the silver maple whose trunk split
in the night.
I lit candles for light.
No spiritual reason
moved me.
I ate bananas for dinner.
The milk, at least, I poured
down the drain before it soured.
A few times, I called the city.
The city answered
in the voice of an old woman,
saying, Not to worry.
Two days later, men arrived on our street.
Their trucks, beeping, startled me awake
before my wind-up alarm clock let out
its shrill and violent ring.
Hours went by.
The men listened to country music
as they climbed the trees that remained erect.
Then, the house made a sound
as though it had eaten something
that made its stomach gurgle.
The lights turned on. The heat turned on.
All the power, all at once—
