as it happens

his raw hand
hot saucepan from stove top

oil splash hard wood
skin, a pink dough on rise

dinner bursts open,
a hot dam -

fire does not wait to be acknowledged
brain is a home pain strolls slowly into

cuts a swath
a building fills with smoke

pain will register
in the morning

white-heat shed kidnaps
the dry of a city-side

a spark barn-storms from chimney
the market turns bright ash

it bellows a flame’s tune

Yesterday this city burned,
fell like Rome to a brigade of fire.
Our homes lit up
like bulbs without borders—
light bashing against the atmosphere
swallowing our beds and kitchen tables
whole, oven-mouthed.

Tonight we mourn our loved ones
cry out what is left into Lake Michigan
wash the scent of burnt city
from our children’s hair.
We will sleep on ember.

Tomorrow we stack bricks
fill the empty space with buildings
puncture the sky with our courthouses
replace the ash with our industry.

Tomorrow these hands…
these immigrant hands
these hands of stone
these Chicago, skyscraper, survivor
hands rebuild this city.