After the Flood

My daughter says there is water in everything
I say, only water can be water. I am made
mostly of water. This cannot be.
The banks gave way and left the river no choice,
it swelled as we leaned steeply into one another.
After the flood, a toilet seat hung in a black walnut
tree and mud lurked on the sisal rug. The lately furious
river murmured back into her banks, a sad moon
watching. Dining chairs have floated away
and beds are being burned. Every place is washed
by a river’s desire to embrace the impossible.
The dust she leaves behind hushes and whispers
in the lungs. I wash in and drink the water,
sipping bits of the river, in my own way.
The river says, “You, too, are water.
Rise up and purify.” As if I could rise over cornfields
and float into the trees or derail trains and wash cottages
away leaving the grass astounded like this.