Shelter

Sept. 18: Dangerous conditions today on the Tennessee River.

The wind struggles with the current; the water churns behind the pylons.

Even the sky is in turmoil.

 

I am the surface of the water. I am broken; a fractured frame of glass,

stretched thin from shore to shore. All I can hear is the wind tearing

upstream, toward my home.

 

The furniture in the living room rearranges to accommodate the flood.

Soon we will live in an aquarium with glass walls, so all can see:

we are bent by the current.

 

(Slowly, with time)

 

5:35 pm; I can hear the blood pulsing in the veins behind my ears.

The wind has died down, and all besides that steadfast throb is quiet.

I am alive; I am a being.

So, I said

I fall asleep on the worn leather sofa

the previous renters left behind

after they found the kitchen leaks.

We don’t mind the waves and currents.

 

We brought flowering plants in

from outside, in hopes to make the

air between us more breathable.

I learned today that orchids are parasites

living in the elbows of tropical trees.

 

I begin my sentences with pronouns

followed by verbs, while you stick to

the conjunction “so”. So, the kitchen

 

floor needs bailing again.

I suggest we install a drain and let the floods

come and go as they please.

 

2:03, pm. When I fall asleep on the leather sofa,

I rest my head on the copy of Neruda’s

“Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair”

that you gave me, hoping the words bleed through

and we’ll have something in common.