Remembering the Titanic Every April 15

Remember us, the voices sang.

The life-rafts drifted. Nearer My God

to Thee. The big ship tilted

and was gone.

Whatever Sultana saw

remained in her heart.

She never cursed the ice

or the cracked hull

that blessed her immigration.

For years disc jockeys phoned

to ease their tense listeners

through the big tax deadline.

The happy coincidence was

no happy anniversary.

She accepted their wishes

but never tossed confetti.

For years she sat, confined, a witness

at the living-room, plate-glass window

in the wheelchair that did not roll far.

Her babies grew old, and one died stung.

A bee sting, Mother Harreck cried.

Perhaps there’d been no bee, no sting,

but a child’s deep pain carried too long,

the edge growing sharper in secret until at last

other voices, older, cutting into darkest oceans called,

Remember the ice and remember us who drift

a while, then watch hard and long

at our plate-glass windows, waiting

for we all know what.