by Bill Yarrow
It's never easy to say. One minute I was
watching waiters carrying whiskey sours
to tourists in striped tents. The next minute
the bay was littered with corpses. I even saw
a dead monkey. The tsunami rushed in as
terrifyingly and inevitably as the immediate
unraveling of a marriage you always suspected
was sound. Who knows what explanation that
liar God would have come up with? He's always
conveniently unavailable for an interview. So
we turn to scientists. Hah! Those apologists of
the divine bully, duped by their own intelligence
into believing in reasons. All the reasons I saw
that day lay face down in the despicable earth.
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This poem appears in WRENCH (erbacce-press, 2009)
The ending here packs a punch, and I like the that the title enigmatically hangs over it, making it read more overtly like a riddle (generally poems, to me, are quite like riddles). Is the sonnet length intended? Nevermind, you don't need to answer that.