The Girl Who Was A Victim Of The Flood

An elm on her front lawn went on dying, and where she finally joined the river a truckload of cattle passed by her, one of its tires rolling over a little deaf mute of a glove turned inside out. But it wasn’t her glove. And as the bridges over the water grew stronger with crowds passing over them, with sunsets, the summer came, and the deep solstice of fruit. There was nothing left of her. Only the convict, handcuffed to an immense dam, gagged, blindfolded, made to listen, felt her untie his shoes, felt her rise slowly over his ankles. And so on shore the night grew until it was his night: children were conceived on beach towels, even as the old boarded their long trains and did not awaken. They could not imagine the invention of water. When they tried to they thought of wheels, disappearances, blindings. And in the woods the throat of a bird swallowing something, a fly maybe; they weren’t sure.  end