After Rebecca Lehmann
In the first draft, I described a single flood
that could’ve been a metaphor: I was 14
and sleeping while the water climbed
a yardstick planted by our porch. Then
I woke up to sirens singing Leave your homes
behind, Dad’s rubber boots and Mom
saying a seatbelt wasn’t safe in case
we had to swim. In the second draft,
I woke up to sirens more than once
but my family stayed put for the first flood.
Dad held my hand and said to be careful,
but it was his idea for us to wade
Main Street. In the third draft, the second
flood was forecast to be worse,
so we evacuated. I remember standing
in a crowd to watch the river close over
our highest road. The scrambled eggs
passed out by volunteers. Dad driving
up and down I-35 as though hoping
new exits would appear. The motel room
Mom was disgusted by, its moist A/C
and my relief we had somewhere to sleep.
In the fourth draft, our first trip home
was in a borrowed fishing boat and just
for long enough to learn we’d been lucky,
which didn’t mean untouched. In the next,
the Red Cross gave us bleach, a mop
too big to fit into the bucket it came with.
I scrubbed the floors so hard I scarred
the wood, but outside the air reeked
of sour mud. In the final draft, I never dream
I’m drowning in the flood or see, again,
the writhing ball of snakes I’d screamed at
from the boat. Nor do I dream about
what newspapers all called the town’s
rebirth, when it was later moved beyond
the river’s reach. Instead, I dream
cold water creeping toward the toes
of tennis shoes I only wore when warned
I couldn’t be barefoot. My choice
is to step into it or wait for it to rise,
but either way I wake up stranded
and surprised that I’m still dry.
Carrie Shipers’s poems have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, New England Review, Prairie Schooner, The Southern Review, and other journals. She is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Grief Land (University of New Mexico, 2020).
