- Tsunami, East Japan
The way water assaults the shore isn’t an act of violenceUnless you’re driving to work as the road darkens then ripplesThe dull morning brain chugging toward comprehension.
Perhaps you say out loud, “That’s water”Before a house swirls over landTaking point in a procession of cars, sheds, boats
Slowly—That’s the thing, how slowly the sea movesAs if it means no harm, and surely it does notBlue sky throughout the prefectures undisturbed by final prayers
Last violent struggles, cold shocks, roar and silence.For now a shimmer of black water laps at your tiresAs you make a three-point turn and drive off
Into all the days that will follow: morning sun settingA seascape alight with its fire, salmon cloudscapes at nightThe gathering waters still trailing behind you. [End Page 138]
Edward Falco is a recipient of the Robert Penn Warren Prize in Poetry from the Southern Review and the Emily Clark Balch Prize in Fiction from Virginia Quarterly Review. His most recent book is the poetry collection Wolf Moon Blood Moon (lsu, 2017). His stories, poems, and short fictions have been published widely in journals and anthologies, including the Atlantic Monthly, The Best American Short Stories, Playboy, and The Pushcart Prize. He teaches in the mfa program at Virginia Tech.