After the flood, we can’t remove the scent of the river from our boots. The drift of the current from our bones. Even in dreams, we drown like kidnapped girls that the police gave up searching for. Our clothes feel like gauze around our damp skin, our eyes become dull and ragged as gravel. Once we swam the width, bank to bank in a flash, slicing through the water around us. Even then it was growing within us, this need to escape. Our tainted faith, our botched deliverance. Now it pours outside for days, moisture swelling the door jambs, the tension aching like a rotten tooth. We grow accustomed to absence, the body’s space, the void of existence. Already we pray for summer, hoping positivity will spread like wildflowers across the floodplain. We are losing ourselves, piece by piece, eroding like riverbanks, dirty water lapping at our ankles.
Adrian S. Potter writes poetry and prose in Minnesota. He’s the author of the poetry collection Everything Wrong Feels Right (Portage Press). Some publication credits include North American Review, Roads & Bridges, Jet Fuel Review, LILIPOH, and Kansas City Voices. Visit him online at http://adrianspotter.com/
Rain illustration by C.B. Auder.
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