Saturday, July 29
FLOODPLAIN
it isn’t that the flood rids us of memory,
no. it shapes memory
a clay to knead like dough, cracks
our knuckles. across the atlantic
my aunts and uncles rise early
for the blessing later.
anoint tired, thirsty skin with oil
after a day’s work. that’s elegance to me.
drought or torrent, someone works
the land. someone picks fruit
i know the name of, along the pacific.
do you ever wish to stay
in bed for days? touch
a deluge, eroding
structure, toppling
every monument. who built all this?
capacity for violence
held. to try to contain anything
is to rid it of water. admit that
the water is rising
(Patrycja Humienik)