The night the river breached at the old house
I dreamt that I saved
from the railing of a too-tall building.
we went inside and
the river water came up to
I took off my shoes &
rolled up my jeans.
The other Me never spoke.
My mother and two sisters and
handful of brothers had to leave the house for the flood.
I went the next night to see the river,
washed forward, reaching,
pulsing for escape.
I imagined seeing things I had lost
in the quiet wakes of
the water snakes.
I lived on the second floor,
but still the mud had reached me,
It was eleven when we got three miles away.
Flashing blue and yellow of emergency lights saying
This is not for you.
We pulled down another road,
farther from the river than my old house slept,
and filled a jar from the overflowing ditch.
Another hour to get back home;
the rain seemed to slick over
our words, and the lines on the road.
Most of the trip was silence.
In the dream, we soggy-waited
in ignorance & blind faith,
thirst quenched by vodka in a Dasani costume.
I don’t know if I shared.
We waited, and didn’t get what
I came for.
We received no closure.
The explanation had been an
a faceless terror in the murky dark.
Walking down the same stairs I saved me from,
I had only dirty river water
clinging to our skin and
a question on my lips:
Who scared me more than drowning?