Water Monologues
1
When the water rose it flushed the animals from their hiding, from their peace, from their stupor. My wife went out to check the cars and they were submerged. But that’s not what she said. She said, “Look — a fox.” And there across the street on a vacant stoop it sat. Orange like stove flame. Still. It rose and across the water — the street — stood and looked at us.
That’s not what rose us from our stupor. Across the street the water still rose, out to the submerged cars, still and vacant. My wife sat there. The water rose. The fox sat, went out to the street, still from hiding, looked at us. When at the street the water had flushed us from our cars, from the street, from peace — my wife said, “Look. Look there. At the water.” And it rose.
Stupor. Vacant. Hiding. Still. The fox submerged in the water, then, hiding, went out to the cars. The water rose. My wife sat there, still. The fox rose like a flame, stood on the stoop and looked at us in our vacant stupor. And they were submerged, the flame my wife the cars the stoop my stove the fox our peace.
2
In the deep heat of flooded summer New Jersey I let go of the steering wheel. Water rushed down asphalt like water rushing down asphalt. I let go. Did I let go of her? I did not. I did not because she was my daughter and you do not let go of your daughter when in the deep heat of flooded summer New Jersey water rushes down asphalt. Can whisk you away. So I grasped a tree branch.
The asphalt gave way when I let go of the tree branch. Down, down the asphalt, I grasped my daughter. Instinct and long experience show you how to hold a daughter’s hand. Holding a tree branch is a new thing. Deep water rushes down summer asphalt and I am holding her so tight it hurts — her or me I don’t know. I do know that water can whisk you away, you and a daughter, when deep in New Jersey the heat, the water, the grasped tree branch let go.
Asphalt gave way. My daughter gave way. New Jersey summer, flood of heat and water, gave way. I did not. I did not let go. I did not — did not let go when the summer water came rushing down summer asphalt, I grasped a tree branch. I let go. I did. I did not let go of the tree branch.
3
In his dreams Noah saw water quenching his thirst staunching his need him floating away. In his dreams Jonah left Nineveh in his wake. In dreams the Prophet sang into being oases in sura after sura dreamed of drams of less water than Noah would drink in a sip at the summit of Ararat.
Each sura is shorter than the sura before. Until the last. Just three sentences. He is ever accepting repentance. Sentences to utter: in your dreams you I we fear drifting farther than Noah adrift. We run from Nineveh by day the suras of our nights longer with each writing. Prophets do not name flash floods. They say victory. They say repentance. Prophets do not say cloud burst do not say conservation do not say global climate catastrophe.
In her laughter pregnant at eighty Sarah rejoiced. In her laughter repented. Rejoiced. She made an offering of new water with her tears.