Rising Water

My knees are under water
on the porch
of the house that
my ancestors built.
I feel the flood which
flows toward the park,
while a couple of turtles
on a log speed by me.

The waters rise, trout swim around me,
tickling my toes while searching
for a safe place.
It has rained for days.
I try to use my magic,
but can’t fix the sky.
I think about my house,
I go inside to conduct
an inventory.
Rare books on bottom shelves
are goners. The ottoman bobs
like a dumpling in chicken soup.
The Afghan rug is treading water.

The Kickapoo keeps rising,
the horizon stone-grey,
the sky a forest fire orange.
I return to the porch chair, wet
now all the way to my waist
in the rushing hell-black deluge.
I decide to stay with
my ancestors.


David Blackey is a retired trial lawyer whose career was devoted to protecting civil rights. He is originally from NYC, and he is a world traveler. His other works were published in Plainsongs, Poetry Hall, Steam Ticket, and Avocet.

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