by Dauphine Sb
I do get vertigo. When the oil runs out, we shall go to our cabin on the lake,
and I should be 60 or 70 then. When the oil runs out I will get vertigo
thinking about ways to protect my children—but they will be
thinking about ways to protect me.
We have a deed. Maybe deeds won’t
matter anymore. When I say the oil
“runs out”, it’s a figure of speech. There will
be a little oil left. But most people
will make do without. My children
will bicycle the seven miles into town
for rice and flour and batteries.
We await their return, keeping busy by scuttling
the old speedboat close to the dock. Up to our knees
in the warm water, the baking sun. How swiftly the clouds
clog the sky.