An Adult Child Abuse Survivor Witnesses 
Hurricane Katrina

Though I knew the storm was coming,
I had no resources,
and I was too small and broken to leave.

I put faith in my carefully constructed
system of canals and levees
meticulously maintained for generations
to hold back the ocean’s claim
of this unlikely civilization
created in exile from oppression.

Years of overwork
for that which cannot satisfy
had reduced once-lush marshlands
teeming with life
to efficient factory land-use
that provided jobs for everyone
who knew they regularly danced
at the edge of  ruin.

And so the party raged on
loud and garish
with a soul full of jazz improvisation 
and Mardi Gras beads
tossed into the inevitable
Ash Wednesday tomorrow
that was always just over the levee
where the tide bode its time
lying in port and
licking its lips in anticipation
as proleptic funeral parades marched 
toward the shores of death.

The hurricane itself was bad enough
but I had survived.
I was alive.

And so I slept
only to awaken knee-deep in rising water.
that drove me out to a neighbor’s for shelter.
But the neighbor’s shelter
couldn’t hold back the tide either.
Up and up and on up we climbed
until, axe in hand, I broke through
the attic ceiling.
For two long sweltering days
I waited. 
Hungry dehydrated exhausted,
I waited.
On the rooftop with a God’s-eye view
of everything swamped,
I waited.
No one came.

When at last helicopters circled overhead
they passed me by
in confused convoys
headed for sicker people.

And so at the mercy
of alligators and water moccasins
in shit-filled water
I swam the River Styx
along with other dead bodies,
to the presumed safety of public shelter.

The nightmares progressed
as the sick and dying moaned,
babies who could not be consoled cried
and other more able-bodied souls
just stared into silent shock
as though trying to peer through
the humid-heavy veil of tears
that would not come.

And still no help came.
Though it was hot as hell
and stank to high heaven,
sin reigned and raped and looted
with few uninformed police
left to quell the rising tide of violence.
In the chaos, I waited,
Clothed only in the quiet panic of despair,
hungry and tired and  cold in the heat.
Armed and ready to kill
those roaming to destroy,
I vigilantly watched
for promised busses that never came.

People died waiting for those busses.
I would not. 
So I vowed to strike out on my own,
taking my chances in the streets,
but the police turned me back
and would not let me leave.
And still I waited for busses 
that did not come.

It was at this point
that I lost consciousness.
Evidently, buoyed 
by a rising tide of support,
I was hoisted 
onto the helicopter
counselor's couch
and deposited in a foreign land
where kind strangers 
bound my wounds,
nourished my body,
sang to my soul,
helped me pray,
and listened to the story,
witnessing the pain,
providing me the means
to provide for myself.
Such grace began draining 
the terror of neglect, 
scrubbing hope clean enough
to begin repair.  

But who can forget
​such hell?
 
                    © 2005 Tess  Lockhart. All rights reserved.