Meimei Xu is a first-year student at Harvard College. She plays violin (barely) and enjoys journalism, history, documentaries, film soundtracks, and giving unsolicited opinions about music. Her poetry appears in Sooth Swarm Journal, Alexandria Quarterly’s Mad & Moonly, Rising Phoenix Review, and others.
It’s not the world that wobbles, but
the bridge: on the lower deck–a ceiling, a floor,
open sides, and a strap of metal caging cars
from vertigo, from the fog, thick, blind, and blank,
from tumbling into the white absence of world.
We continue not continuing in our rows,
red backlight flecking the windshield.
Beams creak, rootless, boltless, floating,
and we, sealed deaf in the engine’s wearied tremor,
mutter, traffic. The windows, not dust, but
shattered rain, light folded like half-moon lenses.
Look right–a silent sheet of sun-storm,
heaven staring in, unblinking.
Now? Silence: a yes.
We turn feral and look outward–
a frantic search for shadow, texture,
the square shoulder of a building,
a dark edge that speaks of humanity.
My god, my god. Noah was prepared.
Noah heard the signs.
Silence: a yes. You’ve had time. Look at these vessels.
Like his, but small, metal, and solitary, one animal per boat,
leagues above the water. You’ve built yourselves
up and in. Made yourselves imperially alone,
sealed your metal hearts shut to survive this:
Now, the clamps loosen. Wobble like joints. The windows,
all old water, drying
until the surge.