Flood; Listen by Judith Grissmer

Flood

 

Small hands pull
a mud-stained pillowcase
across wet ground,
prized possessions,
blessings still bound,

boxes filled with
half-spilled lives,
lugged uphill.

Hear the river roar:
I take all
I take all
from those
who look back.

 

Listen

 

        I came here to count the bells
that live upon the surface of the sea…

Here by Pablo Neruda

Now on this turquoise sea
glitter a million silver reflections
of the morning sun. And I think
they make no sound at all—

Still, I listen.


Judith Grissmer
Judith Grissmer has been published in The Alembic, Burningword, Clare, Crack the Spine, Edison Literary Review, Midwest Quarterly, Mikrokosmos Journal, Penmen Review, Reunion Journal, Schuykill Valley Journal, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, and Westward Quarterly and has upcoming work in SLAB. She lives in Charlottesville, Va and the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

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