The Flood

By Kelly Grace Thomas


The water has come up to the windowsills

bringing all the silence into the room, like a

a confession that can’t stand still.

We swell with the salt, build dams out of memories,

the furniture of conversations piled against the doors.

You and I sit in this rowboat,

trying not to move, while our exhales ripple.

In private bedrooms of next moves and society standards,

the water reminds us it already found us through so many names.

Saturated with tears, endured by sweat, this sea is the island we

will have been drifting towards, but will never reach. 

The one we can't stand on, the one that pulls and pushes

with nothing but wantless apologies that neither will burden upon their lips.

Yet each half of this is threaded by the low hanging moon

that spotlights the need, the chance, the weight,

of water looking for somewhere rest.

Looking for someone to be,

if not this, then there will be nothing left to break

as we both float away.