HARBOR by June Rockefeller

A wall of clocks always catches my attention. So many time zones
          so many concurrencies. Somewhere it’s winter,
    somewhere it’s morning. Newspapers
delivered & recycled. Today’s says an island is sinking—
          A modern day Atlantis.
Residents are frantic, they’re making lists.
To know what you’ll loose, you must know what you have.
                            It’s like this sometimes when a child dies,
                            the cataloguing of his things.
Imagine a whole town shipwrecked: tax returns, spatula
          baby teeth in dresser drawers.
          What couldn’t be rescued, left behind.
What won’t the sea swallow in the end?
People always ask certain questions first like where is home
          or, how many children do you have. If it sank,
          if he is no longer living
                                                                      what do you say?
June Rockefeller received her MFA from Emerson College, where she served as Poetry Editor of Redivider. Recent work can be found in or is forthcoming from: Box of Jars, H.O.W., Poet Lore, and Thrush. She lives and works in Boston.