Breach

Annette, a very brief background to this poem. I hosted Easter Saturday afternoon, hoping to avoid Easter brunch conflicts for my kids. However, I must have miscommunicated, because I made all this food and none of them were able to come. Plus, the river backed up, and our yard was underwater. It was eery. Only my dad and brother came. Doug and I ate scalloped potatoes and ham, quiche and deviled eggs FOR DAYS.

The house skeeters barely afloat,
the river too high and rising,
days of rain and dismal prospects.

The river torrents, rushing away
trees and shore and firewood,
floating rowboats and misgiving.

I get seasick setting the table: bent forks,
rusted knives, inadequate spoons. I keel
this minute and tomorrow's. Drowning

must be like being in two places at once.
I drift weightless to the swish and shimmer,
the impossible snap of fingers. The dichotomy

at the suspense of flooding and waiting
for guests. The wash of sudden emotions,
ripple of jacquard tablecloth, dealing

of plates. At the lift of a shoulder
a strange disconnected buoyancy.
The children of children do not come.