Brazil

by Peter Coe Verbica

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I condemn five hundred

of my closest friends

to death.

​

Left them on the sidewalk

to freeze in the rain

under a plastic tarp.

​

I am too ashamed to even

look out the window.

​

Only Brazil can understand

my sadness

​

with her science museum

in flames.

​

The following afternoon

there is no evidence

of my trips down the stone steps

​

and the boxes of books

I stacked in front of my home.

​

Part of me had hoped

that no one would want them.

​

But someone did.

​

Perhaps some students came

with a truck,

figuring out a way to earn a buck.

​

Only Brazil can understand

my regret.

​

This loss of words.

​

Now just the skeleton

of her science museum is left:

​

a naked outline in the sky.

​

The stink of burnt hides,

smoking bird feathers

and smoldering wood

infuses the air with heaviness.

​

Firemen talk with each other,

drinking coffee from paper cups.

​

‘My friends! My friends!

Why have I forsaken you?

I hope that you are in heaven now,’

​

I lament with self-indulgent hyperbole.

​

I envision the afterworld

as a three-story open-room library

with rolling ladders,

stuffed leather chairs, antique globes

and muted chandeliers.

​

My friends! Warm and comfortable

on the shelves.

​

Someday, like a father

who has lost a son,

a part of me will join you.

​

And someone may

find my life story in a book.

​

The thick and thin of it.

​

Hands from the future

will hold what’s left of me.

​

Eyes will gaze into

the pages of who I am.

​

And another soul may echo

the sorrow I feel

​

condemning to death

five hundred

of my dearest friends.

​

But for now,

only Brazil understands —

​

gaping-mouthed,

shell-shocked,

and shutterless.