Noah’s Wife Had a Name
by Raisa Imogen
I do not wish for pink blossoms or bare ankles.
I want the winter back, the grey slush of snow,
the bodies wrapped in scarves, the surprise of a
pink cheek through the static.
There are no flowers,
only worms floating in ice cold puddles,
making their way up the driveway,
splayed out upon the carpet.
They seem panicked, searching
for their dark wet of earth.
The other animals walk in pairs,
their hands knotted together
as they wait for the city to fill.
It has rained for days but
Noah is nowhere to be seen.
I built the boat with my bare hands
while he slept, dreaming of rain.
You can talk about floods all day long,
I said, but someone’s got to do the building.