The Flood

The coffins float to the surface

like rebellious architecture, buoyed by the floodwaters

that have shaken everything loose. We pass sandbags

hand over hand to build a wall between us and the river

shouting panicked instructions to the trucks to bring more.

The water pouring in from the river is frigid and cold

numbing ankles and hands, but the water

running off of the bloated cemetery is warm, as though the water

is carrying the last breath and embrace of the dead

across the grounds to keep us from freezing.

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