If at all another poem should be

If at all another poem should be,
It must start at the flood.
It must remember how the rain lashed down,
with all the fury of the world,
and submerged a country whole.

It must remember the torrents,
and how they sprayed down relentlessly,
over all the grey walls, the hillocks,
the barbwires and tents,
the minarets, the midges and
sweaty brown pores.
Over all the grimy apparatus.
Over all the gears and levers of existence.

It must remember
how those of us who could sigh—
could find our feet—
congregated and packed boxes,
with buttons,
chiffons, bristles and gruff coconut shells.
With all the undergarments in the world.

It felt as if we were packing boxes,
for days on end,
with every last shred of thread
we could find.
And from one hand to the other,
swifty-swirly, the boxes travelled,
Many even passed through my arms,
my blessed palms.

And away they fled in search
of those who sought boxes—
to heave themselves up,
to affix their soles upon.
to lift their heads out the water,
to see the majestic sky,
to soak in a gust of wind through all their sunlit skin.
To let life triumph again.

I hope the boxes found them.