"cruelty," makes no mention of the earthquake, but describes killing roaches without pause: "i took a broom to their country/and smashed and sliced without warning/without stopping and i smiled all the time i was doing it." The consequence of this sudden and final disruption, writ small, is a sort of impersonation of an earthquake's caprice: "now i watch myself whenever i enter a room./i never know what i might do." Elsewhere, poets invoke a landscape changed and uprooted--dusty, waterbound, and awash in strange new geometries.from Mother Jones: Saving Haiti With . . . Poems?
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