Riddle

Mourning sickness. That’s why the name
persists despite its inaccuracy. Today,
two submarines carrying sixteen nuclear warheads
scraped. On our table, a vase of mauve daisies,
rosebuds small as buttons, fernspray spread
like a sail. It can strike at any time of day.

*
              
What was it like? I asked before
it happened. Can’t be answered. If when
a girl you ventured, wave through wave,
until one towered, overwhelming,
crashed into your body, your self not self,
all water and push—it was like that.

*

You are several specific doors
closing with a quick sharp click,
and the end of quiet. You’re a universe,
remote, improbable forest, a door opening—
no bigger—our roof blown off in storm.
Where ceiling was, clouds now, stars—