by a creek,
murky water waiting
ready to fill
the house with stagnant
want and yearning,
journals of dreams
but the rain, how heavy
it came down
erasing all our pictures,
thick mud-water
filling the basement
every trace of memory soaked
with silt and slick something.
Nothing was of use anymore.
Things that were once beautiful,
now wilted with wet;
how easily water can ruin
Childhood, gone in a flash flood
The things we keep below the surface
are always the most precious
Jessica Powers is a Chicago-based poet and writer. Her work has appeared in Hair Trigger and Ransack Press. She is currently buying too many books and looking forward to writing on the train again someday. Find her on Twitter and Instagram.