The Flood

High time we left this place. The water’s risen
up to our knees already. Like the first,
this flood’s of our own making—but no Noah
appears with hammer, nails, and saw in hand
to build another Ark. We smashed the lifeboats
to spite the neighbors and their seven children
(before we put the fence up, they would share
figs, dates, and tea laid out on woven rugs)
so now we’re stranded too. Our shawls are soaked,
the gauzy fabric cold and heavy. Someone
suggests we swim—but where? On the horizon
another stormcloud, like a crouching leopard,
waits patiently. The rain will not let up.
The water rises. A strange, dark shape floats by—
the rusted helmet of a nameless soldier,
dented and scarred by spears long since gone dull,
the empty eyeholes black as olives, staring
into the iron sky—and then it’s gone,
borne downstream by the apathetic current.

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