Far, far away
in the deep, cool blue
the world is swirling and twirling
Ishmael is tumbling and whirling
head over heels and around and around with
a bellowing sound surging and swelling and roaring in his ears.
Around and around and around he spins until all of a sudden a large shape looms near.
The bird, he thinks as it bears down from behind,
tosses him onto its back, and he’s swept away.
A million shimmering bubbles gush up as they dive into a wave curling high above
and plunge into the sparkling foam as the wave pounds down hard behind them.
Ishmael holds on tight as they swim through to the bright, clear blue.
And then all at once he sees that he’s clutching his father’s back,
and he cries out in a wild burst of joy.
Ishmael wakes up with a start.
His mind is as blank as sand swept clean by a fresh wind.
He lifts his head from the pillow and sees a smooth white sheet tucked
neatly around him; the mattress is flanked by white iron bars to either side.
At the foot of his bed is a doctor studying an open folder and stroking his beard in silence;
then the doctor glances up and notices that Ishmael is awake.
He says something in a language Ishmael has never heard before.
Ishmael feels a lump growing in his throat; I don’t understand, he whispers,
and the doctor nods kindly and leaves the room.
A moment later, he returns with a curly-haired nurse.
There’s nothing to be afraid of, she coos as she prepares a needle for an injection.
Soon you will be well enough to return to your family, but first you will have to rest.
Ishmael closes his eyes; a quick surge of hope wells up in his heart as he imagines his
father packing a suitcase, boarding a bus, and coming at last to take him home.
Statues are toppling down off their pedestals.
They hit the ground with a heavy thump, shattering into many pieces.
Television crews are bumping into each other, scrambling to find the best angle.
Dozens of cameras are focusing and shooting, making a loud whirring sound,
like a swarm of bees.
Behind them, at a distance, people are standing by, watching silently.
The bird circles around the edge of a park.
He sees people carrying things out of burning buildings.
Empty picture frames, chairs with three legs, rolled-up rugs.
Ornate lamps, microwave ovens, brocade drapes.
People are hauling things onto their backs and hurrying away as fast as they can.
Gliding above, the bird watches them:
Sofas and refrigerators and spare tires make their way down the dusty streets,
concealing the people beneath them.
The bird returns to the city’s outskirts.
The dust has settled, and he begins searching for the trapped man.
Everything looks different now; he tries to find his bearings,
but he no longer recognizes anything.
Where are the rows of small cinderblock buildings with the chicken coops out back?
Where is the house without a roof, the rickety fence, the junkyard?
He flies around and around, but he can find nothing.
All he sees are piles of debris and jagged tree stumps white from the dust,
and here and there the twisted remnants of a burnt-out car.
Sadly, the bird curves around in a broad swoop, preparing to head back to the river,
when all at once he sees a tattered green and white checkered shirt scuffling in the dirt,
carried along by a weak breeze.
What the bird doesn’t notice, however, is a man with a bare and dusty back
crawling slowly among the rubble nearby.