One morning I saw the new world
amid the exploding news and rockets of rage
that combusted every line in a newspaper.
I saw it out a window on an icy November dawn
as I stood looking down at a parking lot
below my bedroom where trucks were backing up,
turning, and with great dusty clatter, leaving.
Their beeps and grinding roared
into my room, and yet a stillness hovered
in the pale shapes of people loading them with food,
shadows caught in the soft light of a descending moon.
And I then saw it, as if I were dreaming
in a boat on a rocking sea and having a vision.
An entirely new earth was unfolding inside this one.
More trucks came and unloaded vegetables
and fruits the volunteers had rescued
from a grocery’s waste. The noise built.
More people shouted as they packed the crates
full of greens to ferry to dank pavements
where some of our neighbors still live
in the old, want-filled world.
As these shadows worked, white rays
from the east softened the concrete buildings,
as if this newest world was dawning in golden white.
There, simple care upwells from flayed humanity.
One by one, we take up our places
as the ancient moon sails down the blue-back sky.
This old room where I live dwindled
as I watched. My shoulders rounded
in praise and I turned away to dress
and find my place.
Rachel Dacus is the author of Gods of Water and Air, a collection of poetry, prose, and drama, and the poetry collections Earth Lessons and Femme au Chapeau. Her poetry, book reviews, and essays have appeared in Atlanta Review, Boulevard, Drunken Boat, Prairie Schooner, and Valparaiso Poetry Review, as well as in many other journals and anthologies, including Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English. The daughter of a rocket engineer, she grew up in the southern California seaside fishing town of San Pedro. She raises funds for nonprofit organizations in the San Francisco Bay Area and is at work on a time travel novel involving the great Baroque sculptor Gianlorenzo Bernini.