While I watched the sunrise, the cannons
began firing from the towers overlooking
the city, launching enormous shells into
the faraway sky like they were birthing
stars towards an unknown God. Even over
the shower's morning whistle, the booms
thronged louder than the neighbor hammering
the pavement as he chased rats, and over
breakfast, the cannons fired at the same
rhythm as the crackling of eggs. My wife
and son woke, noticed nothing, thought
the faraway drums as mirages of hangover
and dreams. We dressed for church to
the thumping, drove to church to
the thumping, sang and prayed to
the thumping. By our return home, the sound
was as familiar as drips of the faucet.
The screws on the table jittered and fell.
I replaced them, as if they never moved.
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