The Untitled Series (No. 1)

Those valleys started turning to one lane toll roads,

And the flood took all the white picket fences down to the plot.

The plot held big tubes, and big fans, as a kid I saw mean looking uncles smoking together on the grey picnic tables,

Not many round here remember that plot,

Anymore.

Daddy said that everything’d go back to the plot,

That it was gonna take back what we made,

What we had left.

Flood came before June, and they both twirled around in the living room.

Grandma Flood wore grey, baby June wore blue.

A good church dress.

Momma said it fit nice.

And before we knew it, those tides of sewer water, lake run, and rainy tides,

They brought up bones,

They brought the dead to their home.

But they took our baby chickens,

Ran off with the saving account Daddy had set for me. They took out fields, and all the pictures in the basement.

They were all right, everything did go back to the plot, with the plots yellowing tint, no matter the rise or the set of the sun. Busch cans coasted beside mud, beside birds and besides us in our one piece red suits we got special that year from Walmart. We saw robin eggs every colour of the rainbow, and never ate any sunny side up diner eggs. That yellow was too familiar now.

Baby June grew long, and grandma Flood shrank down, withdrew her tides and sat in the recliner.

But she’d come back.

Grandpa said she never sat still too long.

Last time I saw her it was 2004, she came early that year, and baby June was the same length as me. But I think, I think, Daddy said we gotta be ready in case she comes again this year.

She didn’t come by for Easter, even the united service was too Catholic for her.

The churches she loved fell away, the backyard barbecues on Sunday afternoons started to doze off, till they didn’t light back up again.

We used to scavenge for the lighters, tables, plates. It was vintage since they’d thrown everything else out.

The lady on the news said to avoid the swollen lakes, but they always brought up bikes as bright as the rivers down south.

I never thanked Grandma Flood enough, she had a firm hand, and a gentle close. But I think the best part of her three acts was the last intermission.

That last one I had my head down. I was too old, and altogether, too young. Whatever she took, I never saw go away. So it was fine, it was done.

Those one lane toll roads became my only way home, and I only see the ghosts of our dead pigeons, and picket fences, now. But it’s enough.