Providence

By Natasha Trethewey

What's left is footage: the hours before
     Camille, 1969—hurricane
          parties, palm trees leaning
in the wind,
     fronds blown back,

a woman's hair. Then after:
     the vacant lots, boats
     washed ashore, a swamp

where graves had been. I recall

how we huddled all night in our small house,
     moving between rooms,
          emptying pots filled with rain.

The next day, our house—
     on its cinderblocks—seemed to float
   
     in the flooded yard: no foundation

beneath us,
     nothing I could see tying us to the land.
     In the water, our reflection
                                    trembled,

disappeared
when I bent to touch it.