It floods like a river bursting
the boundaries of its banks,
swallowing farms and fields,
tapping at desperate doors.
It floods like a basement floor,
unsettling trim and drywall,
blotting out children’s histories
stored in quaintly colored totes.
It floods like a dam—cracked
by years of neglect,
by apologies left unsaid,
by sheets now grown cold.
It floods like a sewer,
spewing waste into streets
clogged by the broken ones,
covering hand-painted signs:
I will work for food.
It floods like tear ducts
suppressed far too long,
dislodges the lump
wedged inside the throat.
It floods like an argument,
words heaped atop each other,
drowning tact and sensibility.
It floods like unchecked rage,
bruising the side
of a woman’s cheek.
It floods like
a memory.
