The Flood

The fava drowned and then the tomatoes.
Each rose in the lap of our blessings, after
so much drought, our answer, the rain
changing the earth like a chemical boom:
solid be liquid, liquid be ever. That be
a dollar, said the Amish at market when
we lingered over their bread, said as if
willing the loaf’s transformation into our
arms. At first the rain was welcome.
We thought it was our doing. Standing
outside, the earth seemed to open, gathering
mud in pockets like mouths. We did not
see these were also like lesions, wounds
that would never repair. Our seeds swam
away in them. Our shoes stuck at the bone.
In ditches and gullies, the grass swam
like cilia, and the water was not pure. No.
It was full of us flaked with rock and wood,
televisions, mattresses, car hoods, mail.
It went away. It all goes away. The leavings
of our bodies left us, floated, were lost.

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