Flood, According to Her

You are like a leaky row boat pretending
to be a raincoat. I am straight-forward:
self-confessedly undependable because
my right arm overrules my left, just like
my brain. Life within a fortress within
a life in an arc of motion, oh Russian doll.
How to be the years we have? I'm thinking
of love. I'm planning to make up the truth:
this end-stage sunset, that baby landscape.
I'm thinking of laying down slabs of stone
across the lawn, big feet of heaven, whole
kingdoms. Feng Shui my way: a cadre
of rubber alligators protect my door.
It's not as though we can pick up every
shell on the beach, but there's often
something nesting in the nest of the bird
in the hand. One day I just stepped out
of the boat. Relief like a flood I tell you.

Flood, According to Him

You don't understand limits. Visiting cities
with high water marks, you marvel and

flounce on, not a minute's stillness to absorb
all that's been swamped, what it's like

to be assailed. You're playing solitaire.
I'm dreaming backlit backgammon, bigger

back yard — and you're the goddamned
wave. You try to avoid my mouth. You fill it.

Copyright © 2010 Ellen Doré Watson All rights reserved
from Green Mountains Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission