Antediluvian

No one remembers

the preceding

drought, the way the ground

cracked into terrestrial

lightning or how one

might awake

in the night thinking

your husband so close

you could feel his

breath, his eyelashes on your

cheek, only to reach

up and dust away a lichen-

colored moth, thirsty

for dream

tears. And it’s true: I had so many

nightmares then—

I blame the sky,

where the water gathered

its dark skirts,

brushing so low

the treetops were faceless

like our ancestors.

The Earth didn’t have

such deep pockets

then. The water

hadn’t had time to bore

its way into

bedrock. And so God

evaporated it all

into a storm that wouldn’t

break, stagnant

as my grandmother’s yolked

eye. As my husband cut

trees, I’d wait

for their leaves

quartzed

with condensation.

I’d lick them

as if they were

spoons. He knew

all the animals,

except the two

by two, would

drown, and so

he charted the food

chain, slaughtering

for salt. This job

he gave to me.

And I know why:

he wanted me more

thirsty

for doom.