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.