“And what a congress of stinks! . .. Nothing would give up life: Even
the dirt kept breathing a small breath. “-Theodore Raethke, “Root
Cellar”
Our house sits in mud, no Pompeii. Nearly everything’s awry:
the shampoo is wedged in the blinds; the beds lie on their sides;
thick water stands in cups, sheetrock droops away from beams.
My clothes hang decaying in the bathroom where I left them.
What can I tell the volunteers about my grandmother and me
that they can’t figure out when they excavate the remains?