A tropical cyclone transforms the highway
into a canal, while imaginary gondolas
navigate the wreckage, skim the surface.
I swim as fast as I can toward you when
I hear your floatation device is faulty,
but you might mend it yourself, if I let you.
Rowhome basements full of sediment,
family photos bob with driftwood,
an awkward mother/daughter two-step.
You can dance in a hurricane,
but only If you’re standing in the eye.
I remember a full-of-hopes ocean,
a lake with shores out of sight.
Today, just a dumpster full of rain.
And I keep hitting the rusty metal walls,
wanting to make you swim farther, faster —
my empathy, a false god, a lifeguard mirage.
I can’t save you, even if I feel it all.
This is your swim test.
Water crests over bridges, flooding
mildewed lullabies, devastating past storms.
Trees topple and cars take flight.
Warning sirens plead with me to run.