by Lauren Milici
Before the hurricane, we had a rosebush.
An avocado tree. Limes. The backyard,
where we hid plastic Easter eggs, buried
the bones of small pets. Irma unearthed
our time capsules, carried them
into the pool. Among the floating:
coconuts, branches from dead trees,
pieces of our wooden fence. It needed repainting,
anyway. The house, too. The front door. The garage.
Nothing untouched by rain or heat. Our street,
a row of identical homes. Two dogs per family.
Fireworks all the time, even after the storm.