Sarah Rose Nodgren
When the streets flooded that summer
and our homes became distant shores
across the neighborhood, I had no boat,
just one cracked paddle from the shed,
spider-webbed. I loved you then,
before we wore shirts, carried wallets
and umbrellas; before we knew to worry
about the river moving through town,
thick with filth. The back yard was deep
and tomatoes sank to the bottom.
Like loose teeth, each carrot was torn
from the garden. Our parents warned us
of the rusted cans and snakes.
But up to my knees on the patio, I saw us
mirrored in the surface: your thin arms
and wet hair; my dark eyes and bony shoulders.
Years after, since our bodies transformed
like a cloud the wind tears in two directions,
or the morning after a small town in Texas
slides from its foundations, I’ve never known
why I’m living this life and not another.