flood warning

i tell myself i could live on
a stray eyelash & no one
would ever have to know. 
floating 
fish bowl veils.
there are flood warnings today
& i dream of living 
in my fathers mouth.
sometimes the truth will 
make a bonfire of you.
i guard a pile of watermelon rinds.
they were a gift. they rot.
sprout angel eyes: wild & knowing.
has god ever leaned down &
apologized? said “i don’t know
why i did that?”
not to anyone i know.
instead i think of him 
like my father 
in a room of simple regrets. 
a pocket knife. a stale glass
of water. when someone tells you
they made you 
ask them what that means to them.
in an imaginary phone call 
my father says, “it means 
i am god” in another he says,
“it means i am sorry.”
eating bullets on
the porch. I see a world of
flooded basements. sharks.
sting ray. gathering my attic life,
i hold a gun like the flood 
is something to be fought.
instead all i can be sure of
is that there will be water.
a shower. pulling the curtain
around me like a coffin.
learning to breathe backwards.
locking my bedroom door. locking
my bathroom door. monster clouds 
come to rub together their hands.
this is how i prepare 
which is to say there is 
no way to prepare.