Sometimes the Sky Falls into My Parent's House.

How is everyone
I asked my mama

said it's four feet high and rising,
her voice rising
up a beat,
up to your shoulders
weighing the weight down on scales
where doors shut out dark waters
I count seconds till I escape it,

the dry rot expressed its scathing remarks in silence
a buffer for things said
for rinse water
that promised to clean soil out of towels,
failing, leaving gaps in the day,
leaving work shirts and your son's play shirts
a bone chilling freeze.

The water's sky high and rising,
she said through the stiff receiver,

so please don't make me
the last one floating
in this house