Poetry by Delia Garigan
June on the Oregon Coast and I sleep
uneasy in the family tent, one ear cocked
cognizant of the steady pulsing threat
in the nightlong breaking waves
Their pounding promise
is worry—or worse—
pouring over the precipice—is
a world smashed in underwater silence
(thanks to a tsunami evacuation route
of essential nonexistence)
An hour before dawn the storm moves in—
contrast yesterday’s windless warmth
mosquito swarms and idle kites
to this lashing wet that slings our tent
in rapid tempo, both ways and back
As growing daylight diffuses in
both adults are bracing, arms outstretched
against sideways walls that flap and heave
While somehow the kids still sleep
through the roar and torrent
with puddles flooding up around us
Then the oldest bolts upright
like a four-year-old at five a.m.
takes it in—the hurl and pitch
of a fabric home lifting off around him
Joy radiates across his face; he cries
“This weather is perfect for flying the kite!”
Growing up on a small farm, Delia Garigan assumed animals could understand her words. Later, she aspired to time travel but ended up with a degree in neuroscience instead. After a period of intensive Zen study, she grew her hair out and had a family. As a respite from the consuming work of wrangling her descendants, Delia also enjoys hammering jewelry, eating Khmer food, and inhaling the blackberry scent that pervades Oregon’s deciduous forests.