a poem by Mark Kessinger
I wonder what the winds are like
at Cuba’s four thousand foot peaks.
Is there a space-age drone, military grade,
that can hover at the top like a gull
gliding into the jet stream, stationary,
peering down to let us see the 155 mph winds
sharpen the granite ridge to a razor edge.
Or can we mount a metal post up there
with camera pivoting with its metal cowl
like an indestructible kite, as our witness
to the slope and slip of debris at ramp’s end,
and see what devastation drops leeward.
Or a bunker of stone, concrete, reinforced
like a bomb shelter, to show us the savageness
of slung forces cut in half by rocky outcrop,
letting drop into the swell of gravity,
those things rightfully heir to the earth
once the winds have played enough.
There are ways we could be there
at the storm’s eye: once the vista
of only gods, and the doomed.