Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue One

Sandy Longhorn

Flood Plain

When my father calls and talks of flooding rivers, I want to say forgiveness covers us all. Instead, I ask about the coming crest, the acres lost. My father's voice wavers. It is faint and far away. We both know a river rushing past its banks fills up the hollows first and drowns the roots of low-lying row crops. Yet we can't admit that we've hung on to the grief of flooded fields too long, burying the waterlogged debris in silence. Across the distance, we speak of weather, highs and lows, and when the clouds might break.