spring: the river swells unabashedly and
takes what it doesn’t own, pulling the soft
earth into it, taking, taking.
soon we don’t recognize what has always
been familiar: the wet reeds we comb with our
hooked fingers, the muddy cusp between depth and
shoal where fish dare to circle our open hands.
one morning we wake to a flood in our living room:
water infringing through every gap we’ve failed to notice.
our belongings are carried from one room
to another, a truant river bringing in the wild.
our father’s record collection floats in pieces
through the kitchen: nashville skyline, blonde on
blonde, highway 61 revisited. ferried objects reach
the far side of our house and press against the wall,
piling there. our mother anchors herself to what hasn’t
been moved, braced against the tempest that rolls in.
outside: another hard rain.