The Dead Walk
Over Your Land
Ruth Awad
But first the flood came. And the animals drowned by the hundreds,
paddled and reached until they were too tired to keep their mouths
above water. And their lungs burned, first with exhaust and then
with water. And God looked down and affirmed what your
grandmother always said: Animals don’t go to heaven.
Fine. But we’re above water now.
And the land hums with its own desires:
north. You’re imagining the glasses your mother
pulled down from the cabinet. Or she’s at the foot
of your bed, the weight of her.
But now the vines reclaim the windows.
Your cabinets open, dishes exposed like teeth.
A wound, exhumed, and the animals
are swimming, your mother is walking,
they are all home, they are all with you.
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