before we’d pitched the roof
filled our shoes
until we sloshed around
but our toes had already pruned
and the water soon reached our knees —
a distress signal we chose to ignore.
our hands were still dry, after all,
and we could still do things
wash the walls
the water rose
and we were neck deep.
but our eyes could still see
and our lips, they weren’t wet yet.
so we chose not to talk
about the suffocating rain
and about how hard it was to tread water
seemed a better option.
and then, to the thunder soundtrack, the rain filled our mouths
pushing up and out —
burning our nostrils
mixing with tears and bits of old dinners
and birthday gifts
and place settings of expensive china
long forgotten and shattered —
and that really nice tablecloth
the one that we never used
because dinner parties seemed inconvenient
beneath an open sky
seemed to stop
and we held our breath
puffing our cheeks like blowfish
swimming through the kitchen
and over the couch
and next to that painting
and that photo
until we had to open the windows
just to breathe.