A pumice raft is found floating
in the Pacific. 20,000 football fields
of solid froth. I put this in the minor
miracles category alongside desert roses,
cats with a penchant for bipedalism,
and the supermoon punching me
in the gut on swelling nights I’m out
jogging while London’s amping down.
I drink a six-day-old coffee &
I do not die. My friends they laugh
so genuinely at the category of risks
I take—I, whose body has no daredevil
bones, who is cartilage-hearted, who is
small. Safety feels great to me. What
can I say? About the pumice raft—
You hope it will disperse over an
out-of-luck coral reef. Little lives all
suckered to it will rain down and
gentrify what’s been on the verge
of collapse. I learn this sipping
old coffee from a jam jar, parody
of my generation. You know there’s
some small buoy of hope it all carries.
Yesterday the life of someone I love
might’ve changed for the better.
It can be hard to know for sure
about anything at all. Today I imagine
waking up on a catamaran to find
myself floating in a crust of bubbled,
ashen glass. Radioing it in. Returning
later, finding it has sunk far down.
—from Poets Respond
September 3, 2019