Flood
Neck-twisted horse and three broken chickens
in places. Last night Sarah found a bramble den
Everywhere a drip drip drip and birds crying
face limbs belly breast hair and still my skin
mud slick, cabinets stacked with dish earth,
on Noah's clean-up efforts after God's wrath
ghosts itself from room to room, waits for me
open but nothing dry yet; my face a rounded plea
the water keeps receding, washes back towards
I will dig a deep hole, pull in chickens and the horse,
left in my yard by flood's rush. Road washed out
of baby foxes cupped in school's old well-mouth.
for lost nests and cold eggs. I washed my hands
is grime freckled. Like my kitchen, floor a rancid
my body stinks of dirt and river bottom. Bible silent
washed everything blue. My grief slyly
in wet corners and under lampshades. Windows
for some small mercy goes unanswered. Slowly
its banks. Time to bury hope my Albert did not drown—
cover my useless grief with shovel sounds.
--Cassie Sparkman, 2004