Inventory after Flood

Last night the river flooded

and hauled away my answers.

I should not have stacked them

so near the bank. I'm left 

with questions stored

in small dry places, bowed

shelves, bitter boxes. So far

the roof is holding.

Rain slaps and pummels

it in surges. I start

to unpack questions.

My smashed answers

roll and twist toward

a delta or a dam or just

rocks on the way. Today

I fret and squirm and

say What are they for?

What are they for? 

This only adds to a stuffed

frustrating inventory. 

hans ostrom 2021

Őland

 Őland

(islands east of the Swedish mainland)

We sail past rocks that glaciers

rubbed round, so the square story

goes. Round heads of old monks,

slick heads of seals sleeping on

black-boulder islands.

We’re sailing to a land, Åland.

It belongs to water, a semi-nation of Swedes

governed by Finns, its very-own flag

air-snapped by unconquered winds.

Three old Swedish men, drinking beer

this early morning, mutter

stories of boats, ships, water, and things

that go wrong. “Panama,” they say.

And “Gävle.” “Titta,” they say: Look,

and we pass the rocks past Őland.

The rocks pass us, looking. Things can’t

go wrong with rocks but can go

wrong on them. White swans

fly by. Earth never stops whirling—

so grave story goes. “Ibland,” the men

say. Sometimes. For Ő, which is island,

say O but with tongue lifted to middle,

an island the vibrations flow past

and out through the O into air.

Å is just oh, and oh is just water.

In Waterland, land becomes a sought-after afterthought:

“Oh. . . . Land.” Ibland. Åland. Őland.

1994/2021