by Sara Blaisdell
It seems the obvious thing to do. In that way there is so much home here.
The rain is a faithful machine designed to drown out wickedness,
but for some reason the natives keep going. They’re the only survivors.
It has something to do with their huge black umbrellas.
The strange man who invites me to sing a song,
from my country to his, and won’t relent —
he will kiss me if I let him, and I will become
purified as well, maybe even famous.
So what if the world is ending outside in a flood that no one will forget?
The castles are floating down the streets in small particles;
the sheep are tucked away for the night
In some ways life is just beginning— a novel idea,
one we toast to several times, I with my Pepsi and he
with his whatever. I can feel him needing me all the way
across the table. All his ancestors are dead or have left
for America. Why, no one can say.
The endless rain, the castle patterns on the horizon— all look better with a drink. Everything looks better with a drink. “You're so glorious,” he says. “Like nothing I've ever seen.”
