H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
The morning, warmer than the afternoon,
no sun to go down. The sky merely tilted,
then slid to black, the river roaring but
invisible behind the trees once light was
gone. The thaw had begun somewhere up north
while we stayed deep in winter, temperature
ignoring the calendar. By the time
the water rose beyond the banks, everyone
was safe, the predicted parameters
of flood accurate, no one surprised, even
those who had nearly lost everything, still
clutching rescued photographs in hotel rooms
out on the pike, their belongings either
carried up to some second floor or off the
plain altogether if they had time and
a truck. How long must you wait to return
to a place you said you’d never go back
to, waiting for ice to melt so that water
can recede, a mild hysteria part
of the daily, even up on higher ground.
Sandra Kolankiewicz's poems and stories have appeared most recently in New World Writing, BlazeVox, Gargoyle, Fifth Wednesday, Prick of the Spindle, Per Contra, and Pif. Her bookTurning Inside Out won the Black River Prize at Black Lawrence Press. Finishing Line Press has just published The Way You Will Go.
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