the flood came earlier than the weathermen
expected; the prophets predicted it first.
the maintenance-man left
a note under a scrap heap of once-used
baking trays and rotting pots to stress the fact
that there was a mouse problem and
the kitchen which could only comfortably fit
one person, the kitchen with the window stubbornly ajar
in february, was a communal, capital c, place.
our generation: drunk on lethargy, like noah
after he planted his vineyards,
collapsed back onto appropriated lands.
and, with a crooked smile, noah maneuvered his penis
with sticky fingers, like a three year old in a bath tub;
while staring into a once indigo sky.
the rainbow wasn’t legally enforceable—
just an iridescent half-circle with a paler sibling inside it;
and a promise that there would never be another
flood, a flood,
the note, now decorated in grease spots and water stains,
still sits on the cluttered counter— three weeks have passed.
and i, stupidly empathetic, grow weak
as its every single word pulls at my eyes
like hooks. i turn on the water, twist the tap as far to
the left as it will let me, and finally throw a dollop of
soap over drowning dishes. ashes to ashes, and all that.
i should have watched, i knew that there was a clog;
instead i hid my shame under an unwashed blanket and began
the mechanic motions of bringing myself to climax.
closer, closer, the water began to trickle, pant
pant, over the side of the sink, oh, oh, and started
kissing the floor, oh, yes, yes, until the floor drowned, ahhh.
enjoying the smell of my moisture, i close my eyes
and lean back into a sorry excuse for a pillow, and fall
into sleep listening to a murder’s cawing gossip.
vi. the book of malachi
it wasn’t the dove who found the olive leaf,
they got it wrong. it was the raven. o, fuck—