Frieda Christofides, Rumpled Up (Artist Website, Instagram)
Watercolor on 100% cotton paper
Heavy-lidded eyes, umber, as if the sky were but a pupil
expanding awry, the star a speck of dust, the moon to mirror
a caught reflection. There is an endless storm outside, your hand
to dip beneath my back like an oar, grazing the boat somewhere
steady, as if to remind the body, I am alive. The heat is
barely running. The rivers these days are carrying souls
by the thousands. And this house has always had holes,
hidden teeth, to gnaw the plaster off wet shadows above
our heads. Ceilings to crumble. Every droplet, as if a life
to bury our blood, still cold. They say, even still, it is better
to live in their house, made of sand. They say, even still, it is better
than drowning. I hiss to the thought, your whisper to follow suit
like a tail, curled protection behind my calves. This logic
will never last. As we pick up all we have, and prepare our lineage
steadily for the aftermath. The waters welling up at last.
We empty through the door, and watch the roof collapse.