There is too much water, my love—
enough to sail or drown in.

Our toilet, a geyser.
Bathtub, an ocean.

You are slogging through waves
here in our bedroom. Soaked skirts
and tangles of my hair catch your ankles
like seaweed.

Up                                          mounting.
            our                the tide is

Our first floor windows
an hour ago
in a drowning banshee shriek.

(I cried out.

You said not to worry.)

I listened to our furniture swim
frantic, kitchen chairs bumping blind into
walls in the deep sea dark.

Eventually they sunk or stuck to the ceiling—
I couldn’t tell over
Titan’s rising roar.

And where is kitty?
When the water was a leak
at the back door—a petty drip from the upstairs faucet—
she yowled for her escape.
You let her out with a sigh
and brusque shake of the head.

From our bed
—my disappearing island—I see
you look to me now,
the water sucking
your thighs,
one white foam sandal                   floating
into your left hip,
your head dry as the

Kate A. Durbin writes poetry and fiction. Currently she is attending the University of California's MFA program in Riverside. She has had her poetry published in Moodance, and her poem "The Fifth Gospel" won the Annual St. Mary of Magdela Poetry Contest in 2004. She was a finalist in the Atlanta Review Annual International Poetry Contest in 2005. Kate lives with her husband in Whittier, California. (xcornflakegirlx@yahoo.com)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761