Obemata
the flood this time
is an accomplice to death summoning life
to death. there’s no comfort
in the news breaking from places under water
that have become pus-filled wounds. there are no interludes, respite, reliefs,
only misery, grief, ruin.
you, i mean you, can only imagine the furies of rivers,
greater than a corked wine;
the power of water
in its indignant rage taking
friends and foes as captives
before freeing them
and losing itself
in the distant sea,
and i know you cannot lose
your memories of your interred city, streets, homes,
playgrounds, ponds,
or forget the cries of people
clinging to straws
bobbing in the flood
that announces more deaths
by drowning.
