Todd Campbell

Cataclysm

A house reduced to smoke and cinders.
Linoleum, blistered and black, curled at the edges.
A telephone pole bereft of its wires. A figure,
standing in the front yard staring at a bare chimney
that points to the clear blue sky, wondering
if there’s so much as a photograph to remind you
who you are. But you know that’s not right.
So, a flood zone. Dark stains at the high water mark.
The sour sewage tang. A figure, laboring
sludge and muck from the living room, kitchen, den;
dragging sodden rugs into the sunlight. But that’s wrong too.
So you close your eyes to see it more clearly. The curve
of a long driveway. The sound of a tractor
harrowing unplanted fields. A line of dark trees
at the edge of the property. Make your way around back.
Wipe the mud off your boots. Walk in through the kitchen.
Turn left. Climb the stairs. Left again. Head down the hall.
Stop at the closed door. Place your hand on the knob.
Test to see if it’s locked. You know the room
is empty. You know you are still trapped inside.

Todd Campbell is a speechwriter, poet, and mosaic artist based in Seattle where he has lived for the past three decades. His poetry has appeared in Pangyrus, Poet Lore, Reed Magazine, The Shore, Watershed, and elsewhere.