Asteroid Recovery

At the moment of impact, my brother said he felt nothing, he felt himself to be nothing, a curl of smoke from some extinguishment, the last of the species of himself, caught in the very moment of extinction. The cupboards of his clapboard chest shook enough to shatter their earthenware to the floor, and then the shards shook more. He is still quaking. He says there is no awake. At the moment of impact, a seismic shift split the sea, tide after tide so high his rupture. Whitecaps to batter the firmament, their fists to the punching bag sky, his fist blotting the sea from his eye. And nothing of himself, and everything taken away. At the moment of impact, his eclipse stayed dark. Leaning all his weight against a sun that strains to rise for him, like trapping torment shame behind a closet door though it pounds to be let out. The buoyant wisp of you, the unsettled dust of your body, that last wandering animal, typhoon beating and beating a nameless shore that is your every regret, you, pinprick light years away, shelves stripped bare, darkness blanket around shoulders. What of your dominion does not grieve with you?