missing

the storm came
before we’d pitched the roof
and the
r
a
i
n
filled our shoes
until we sloshed around
desperately trying
to keep
things
dry.
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
like cook
wash the walls
and smile.
but then,
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
when floating
or drowning
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 —
teacups
silver-plated spoons
and that really nice tablecloth
the one that we never used
because dinner parties seemed inconvenient
beneath an open sky
that never
seemed to stop
raining.
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.