The Drowning House

The rain is a hood       pulled over the world.
Our neighbor’s house, vanishes.         & its windows
through which we watch things             undress.
The plastic deer neck-bent        as if chewing up the lawn
go the way of other deer,        of the wolves,        the arroyo
turned creek again.                     & beyond that somewhere
we pass through as quickly as our pickup allows       a dry reservation.

Sightless, driven       more than driving, we leave     briefly
 for that higher ground.

 & in our absence,
if our cellar floods, well,           it’ll give us a reason
for bucket & heft. If the slot machines mommy pumps her grocery store
checks into makes the water there more                     potable, a reason.
If my brother picks another fight with someone who’s name isn’t
quite like ours. If the horses               goddamn everywhere recognize
the yoke of our hands. If from these hills
 I can witness

our home, consuming & being consumed. The ironwood I knifed my name
into wash itself clean. The deer return. If the deer return                  daddy says
wolves won’t be far behind. Shotgun & fences. I can’t see our fence from here.
The barbs, what catches on them.      The valley floor. It’s wide-                 open
mouths we fill with English.






Join the conversation