to the ravine.
Where are you, Gogo?
Where are you?
Tiny stars twinkle
in the cool, clear water.
Suddenly I remember Manman.
Manman is waiting for me.
Manman needs water
to make red beans and rice.
Manman needs water to
bathe Gregory.
I lift my head.
The mango tree is gone.
The yellow fruit,
my bucket,
the clear water,
all gone.
Only a blur
of uprooted trees
and grass.
Only the gritty taste
of dirt
and dusty rock.
Only the fluttering
of whiteflies
in my stomach.
Slowly I pull myself
onto my knees.
My head pounds.
My stomach sways.
I crawl through chunks
of split rock,
torn grass, and
tiny pink flowers.
What happened?
The earth trembles again
and I lay down.
A sour taste
like watery green mango
fills my mouth,
and I throw up dirt and water.
Where am I?
Far away, down the hill,
I hear the sound
of muffled wailing.
For a long time,
I lay there,
waiting for the earth
to grow still.
Above the grass,
a tiny yellow butterfly
flutters aimlessly,
like a flower petal
ripped from its stem,
looking for a place to land.
The earth quiets.
I pull myself up.
My arms and knees
burn and bleed.
My uniform is torn
and dirty.
What happened?
The path is gone,
cluttered
with broken stones
and fallen trees.
Is the earth angry
with me
because of my selfishness
and almost-lies?
I look down.
My shoes and socks
are gone, swallowed
by the swaying giant.
My shiny school shoes—
how will I replace them?
Which way do I walk?
How will I ever
find my way home?
Questions whirl and twist
in my mind
like a tangled rat’s nest.
Where are Manman,
Gogo, and Gregory?
Did they leave to look
for Papa and me?
Did the angry beast
swallow our home?
Should I stay here or go
to the President’s Palace?
If I stay where I am,
will anyone find me?
Softer than a lizard
on a turnip leaf,
I hear Gogo’s voice.
If you want your eggs hatched,
sit on them yourself!
I stand up
and slowly step
sideways
down the hillside.
My bare feet slip
on loose dirt
and dry grass.
I’ll go to Port-au-Prince.
Papa will be waiting
outside the President’s Palace.
Manman, Gogo, and Gregory
will find us there.
Toppled trees stretch across
the path like hungry giants
eager to snatch me
with their knobby limbs,
to trap me
in their tangled roots.
I walk slowly, my legs weak
and trembling.
My heart beats
like a trapped sparrow.
My breath is barely
able to squeeze through
the tightness in my chest.
What have I done?
Again the ground rumbles
and I fall.
The grass I grab on to
pulls from the earth.
I bury my face
in my hands
and wait.
My mouth and eyes
are dry as dirt.
My bruised arms
itch and sting.
I take a deep breath.
Once more,
With every step,
my knees buckle and burn.
I keep walking.
The dry grass disappears.
The litter of ripped trees
changes to the litter
of broken cement.
The smell of garbage
and burning wood
chokes me.
Outside their mangled shacks,
mothers and children
stand dazed and crying.
Their frightened faces
swirl around me.
Babbling voices sputter
and snap.
What are they saying?
What are they asking me?
I need to find
my papa.
The soles of my feet
burn and bleed,
but I keep walking.
Finally
I reach the sobbing city.
Through broken streets
and blowing dust,
I straggle and drift.
Surrounded by wails
and walking zombies,
I stagger and limp.
Where is the long iron fence
of the President’s Palace?
Papa will be waiting there.
He’ll lift me in his arms,
stroke my hair,
and touch my face.
You’re safe, Bondye bon,
he’ll say.
He’ll smell like hard work
and fresh oranges.
He’ll laugh
like rolling coconuts.
Manman will cover me
in kisses.
My brave girl, she’ll say.
She’ll give Gregory
to Gogo to hold,
and hug me tight.
Her hair will smell
like burning charcoal
and garden roots.
The drums will beat gladly
and we’ll dance.
I move forward slowly,
looking for my papa,
listening for drumbeats.
The city is filled
with ash, dust,
and open, empty arms.
The air is thick
with smoke, flame,
burning wood, and straw.
Around me,
voices babble and weep.
Sirens scream and wail.
I cover my ears,
but still I hear.
The crowded streets
heave in sorrow.
A heavy dread
slumps inside me.
Where are the fence and path?
Where is the big white church
where we pray on Sundays,
or the supermarket
where Papa sells mangoes,
sweet milk, and rice?
Nothing looks the same.
I keep walking.
In every ash-covered face,
I search for someone
who is searching for me.
Night comes.
I walk beneath
a ragged blanket
of broken sobs
and gray dust.
Underground
the beast rests,
but the earth still shakes
from grief.
Where am I?
Where should I go?
Someone touches
my shoulder.
Long, thin arms
tug at me.
Sleep here, petit mwen.
It’s too dark
for wandering.
The woman’s spindly hands
pat a bare, lumpy mattress.
I lie down.
Above me,
stars weep smoky light.
Beside me,
bony arms keep watch.
Trembling fingers
pray on wooden beads.
I think of Papa
comforting Manman
when the rains came.
Look, he said,
the stars still shine.
Where are you now, Papa?
Where are you, Manman,
Gogo, and Gregory?
Are you looking for me?
Are you hurt?
In the darkness,
my thoughts tumble like
falling stars—
the rising water
and the dead donkey,
Nadia’s mother,
Julie Marie,
Granpè,
the Tonton Macoutes,
Baby Pierre, and
Antoinette Solaine—
too many to catch
or follow.
Shipwrecked,
in a throbbing,
mournful sea,
my mattress
floats
toward morning.
Stay with me,
the thin-armed woman says
when daylight wakes me.
Don’t wander all alone.
How can I stay?
Manman’s words
rustle in my head.
Pa pèdi tan! Don’t dawdle.
And Gogo’s words—
If you want your eggs hatched,
sit on them yourself.
A siren wails.
The thin-armed woman
turns her head.
I scurry away to look
for Papa’s supermarket.
Quickly I’m lost
in mounds of crinkled tin,
mountains of crushed stone,
and a sea of broken people.
Along the street
and on the sidewalk,
between crumbled buildings
and crumpled cars,
people cry
and call for help.
Is Papa one of them?
And Julie Marie—
is she buried beneath
the rubble?
Where are Manman
and Gogo?
Is Gregory safe?
A woman kneels
on the ground
rocking a small
dust-covered baby.
Se lafendimonn! she says.
It’s the end of the world.
Is it the end of the world?
Will the beast return
to devour us all?
I kneel down
beside the woman
and gaze at
her quiet baby.
I remember
holding Gregory.
I remember
the rise and fall
of his soft breath.
I remember
my promise
to keep him safe,
and Gogo’s soothing words,
Babies are a blessing.
Do blessings hide
beneath a coat of dust?
Gently I brush away
the fine white ash
on the baby’s face
and say a prayer.
As if to answer me,
a square white car
with dusty tires
and a painted red cross
on the door
pulls up beside us.
A small, wiry woman
with red glasses gets out.
In her hands is a blanket
and a bottle of water.
She stoops down
to look at the baby.
Is he hurt? she asks the woman.
Are you hurt?
The woman shakes her head.
Non! Se pè mwen pè sèlman.
I am only afraid.
We are all afraid, the woman
with glasses says,
but we need to help each other.
She wraps the baby
in the clean blanket
and gives his mother
the bottle of water.
Pa bwè vit. Drink slowly.
Then she looks at my arms
and my knee.
We need to clean your wounds,
she says.
I can’t believe it’s her.
Words crumble like dirt
in my dry throat,
but I push them out.
Do you remember me?
My name is Serafina.
She looks at my face.
Serafina! Wi!
Of course I remember you!
Antoinette Solaine wraps
her strong, clean hands
around my dirty ones.
Come with me, she says.
Something inside me
swells and shatters.
Tears sting my eyes.
She opens her car door
and helps me crawl inside.
Torn seats prickle my legs,
but the warm smell of coconut
welcomes me.
She pulls a plastic bottle
from a white box behind her seat.
Pa bwè vit, she says,
her voice lilting softly.
Do you know that woman?
she asks.
I shake my head.
I am going to check on her
and her baby again.
Stay here. I’ll be back.
Cool water glides
across my blistered lips
and dry tongue.
Dr. Solaine, I whisper
when she returns.
Is it the end of the world?
Non! she assures me.
Her brown eyes are soft
like water from the ravine.
Her voice is as gentle
as the mourning dove.
Youn tranbleman tè, she says.
An earthquake.
She climbs in beside me,
pulls a cloth from her bag,
wets it, and cleans my wounds.
Even though they burn,
I stay very still and
watch how she works,
so tender and calm.
These aren’t so bad, she says.
You were very lucky.
I manage a smile.
She strokes my cheek
and puts her bag
on the seat behind us.
Then she stretches
her right arm
to protect me,
as she slowly, carefully,
steers her car
onto the crowded road.
Our clinic was spared, she says.
So I came here,
where I can be more helpful.
Youn tranbleman tè.
An earthquake.
Even the word
makes me shudder.
Antoinette Solaine
eyes my dusty uniform
and smiles.
I see you go to school,
she says gently.
Do you live in the city now?
Is your school here?
Words stick in my throat
like sharp stones.
How can I tell her
that my school is outside the city,
and that school is not how
I thought it would be?
That I don’t want to sing
and count in French,
I want to learn medicine!
That I was looking for her
and got lost?
How can I tell her
about the almost-lies
that tumble inside me
like whiteflies?
I look out the window.
My school isn’t in the city, I say.
I only came here to look for Papa.
Whenever there’s trouble,
he meets us at the President’s Palace.
But the palace is gone!
I looked, but I can’t find it.
Antoinette Solaine reminds me of Papa.
She just listens
and doesn’t ask too many questions.
I keep talking.
Manman and Gogo were home
waiting for me to return from school
when the earthquake came.
We have a new house now,
hidden in the hills, far from the city.
We moved when the flood
washed away our old house.
It’s quiet there, with lots of space.
We even have a garden.
Well, we had a garden….
Antoinette Solaine’s voice
is soft as honey.
The worst earthquake damage
is here in the city
and neighboring villages.
Your manman and Gogo should be safe.
The tightness in my chest
opens and I breathe deeply.
I have a new brother too, I say.
His name is Gregory.
He’s sick.
I was looking for you
when the earthquake came.
Antoinette Solaine’s eyes
widen and glisten.
What’s wrong with him?
I tell her about the rash,
how it spread and makes him cranky.
I tell her about the paste
Gogo and I made of aloe and water,
how it soothed him
but didn’t make him better.
His belly is round and full,
so I know he isn’t hungry.
I don’t know what’s wrong with him.
Sometimes even when we eat,
Antoinette Solaine says,
our bodies are hungry.
Has his skin become scaly?
No.
Is his hair falling out?
I shake my head.
Is he still eating some?
I nod.
Then it is not too late….
We’ll find your brother, she says,
and if I can help him, I will.
Dr. Solaine’s car moves
slower than a turtle.
Every inch, I scour the crowd
for Papa.
A woman with a red bandanna
wrapped around her mouth and nose
hangs on the shoulders
of an old man in a torn shirt.
A scrawny girl with wide,
frightened eyes
leans against a mound of rubble.
One hand clutches a yellow cookie.
The other grips her shoulder.
The girl’s lips are white
with dust.
Her loose braids
and even her eyelashes
are white with dust.
But under them,
I see two gentle eyes,
dark and shiny
as the seeds
of the sapote fruit.