Parable of the Flood
A flood is coming, you know. The forest animals have fled.
The cattle, having broken the fence, are long gone.
Your hands float like the moons of two planets
orbiting a dead sun: cold islands gone numb.
You are watching the boatwright hammer nails into wood.
Watching the boatwright fasten a horsehide sail to a spine.
You just stand there, like a tongue without a mouth
to control it. The boatwright asks you to undress
and lie on the ground. He would like your skull
to light the way, your pulse to turn the engine blades,
your eye to focus the telescope lens. The boatwright
wants to break your throat into a luminous creaking.
You understand the boatwright as a figure of God.
You have no use for these things anymore.
Someone should cut out the stars’ tongues, he says.
Someone should feed the moon’s intestines to the dogs.
Standing in the field between forest and water, you want
to feel. Kneel, nod your head. Lay it against his blade.
