WHEN THE HUNDRED-YEAR FLOOD HITS HOME
There is a gapping
in the chest when the water
outside pours indoors.
A continental
shift shuts down the panic that
will only drown me.
As the first tree gives
with a rush of wind and that
ground-shaking thunder
and then another
and another pound the house
next door. The roar as
oak folds shed like its
an old slice of bread around
raw celery spear.
There is clarity
of who must do what
to get where safely.
A laser focus
on further up and further
in gathering speed.
The wind whips razor
blade sheets of rain sideways as
everything roars. Doors
slam. My youngest’s hand
holds tight, as I urge older
sisters not to stare
but to move move move
to the house up the hill with
no trees and no creek
where yellow light pours
from storm-fogged windows like
freshly buttered toast.
Then the door opens.
We’re pulled inside where it’s warm.
Where it’s dry. Where it’s
safe. I look back home
just as the storm plants a tree
on my bedroom roof.
—from Poets Respond
__________
Christiana Doucette: “This poem was written as my phone battery depleted last night. We are on day four of no power, post-Helene. And I am so very grateful for good neighbors and bodily safety. I think we of the South Carolina upstate, and Western North Carolina will be carrying the terror of this storm for a long long time.” (web)
