It started as rioting. And right from the beginning you knew this was real. . . because it wasn’t on the TV any more. It was in the street outside. It was coming through your windows. It was a virus, an infection. You didn’t need a doctor to tell you that. It was the blood. – Selena, ’28 Days Later’
I
In the beginning
This unholy light—reds
And oranges mostly with a simple touch of rust
Like Mars—the morning star, indeed the god
Herself fell through the eucalyptus trees,
My sense of wonder
Blunted by smoke. The first night.
II
A genuine act of God you called it.
Only this thing made Paradise
Look like just your average
Wildfire. This thing was dark
And hazy and she hovered
Over our half-burned structures and piles of ash
Like a hummingbird-moth emerging,
Spinning from her chrysalis
And scattering her violets
And her greenish hues out into space.
Then she flew away . . .
III
I am born
Between commercials—“Saigon falls
Or Elvis dies” spun like a broken record on TV
Or we might watch the game
Or Billy Graham, or whatever the hell else
Folks watched ’til Carson started
And then we turned off all the lights
And then we went to bed. When we woke
We did the same damn thing again
And again and again
Period. End of story. Amen . . .
The hollowed honeysuckle shrub
Still oscillating up and down
IV
Some nights later I buy a star
Online. I called the thing The Ghost
Of Jesus Christ
But I couldn’t see her through the light
Pollution plus the name was taken
So I chose The Ghost
Of a Caterpillar instead
V
The next morning she appears to me
In the form of the Cone Nebula—
The cover of a calendar I also buy—
One momentary glow in all that darkness
And then the fever starts
And I begin
VI
A poem I’ll never get to finish
Early Signs and Symptoms
The authority of God—
My daughters voice, whatever—
It stops me dead in my tracks.
So now I’m standing here
Straining to hear it when suddenly I see it
Growing dark outside and inside
The news is on and I’m trying not to notice
Just to focus. I turn
The volume down—and the goddamn lights
Because by now the headache’s splitting—
And I hear it again. “Kevin!”
I think she actually called me by name
And I am loving it, but I can barely hear her
Because by now the room is spinning
And now she’s screaming.
And I have no idea why.
And then I see her—those deep blue eyes
She gets from me—
I lift her up and offer her
The same white lie I heard when I was young
The sun shines just for you my love
For you and no one else—
And as I faint, I bite my lip
And get the momentary taste
Of my own blood
Kevin Henry was born and raised in New Mexico, but is presently following his wife and 4-year-old daughter up and down the Lost Coast of Humboldt County California in a desperate search for mermaids.
