The Rest Is Water

 

 

And soon there will be more of it, from the runoff

 

of an unexpected sun, or increasingly large boulders

 

dropped into the sea like Archimedes in his bathtub.

 

The world is old, but you are not done with it, even

 

with its lamentable shortage of tigers, its sleepless armadillos

 

under sunlamps at the zoo. What you wait for is a flood

 

of your own, a string section to explain what this is

 

that’s happening, and who is this man who loves you,

 

and what color is his hat. You’ve longed exclusively

 

for good and evil, never expecting this, like all your other

 

rules, to abandon you when most urgently required.

 

What were you going to fill your sleepless nights with

 

but your growing concern over the helium that’s running

 

low, and where is the barn you were raised in that you

 

would steal balloons from sick children to extend

 

its supply? Who are you with nothing else to do

 

but love him back. When the ark pulls away, you won’t

 

be waving your lacy handkerchief goodbye

 

from the upper deck, or from the ground, but in the water,

 

rainbowed in oil-slick with all the other ugly ones.

 

       hilary dobel

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