Flooded Poem by Judith Skillman

Nation of water and excess,
each droplet another source
of loss and discontent.
Or else what music calls
to the earth from its dislocated sky—
low-hanging, pregnant
as with Noah's flood.
Again inundated, as in dream.
A slow truth brings the body back—
it is the other who lies
between two worlds-
the uncle shrunken to half
his size, that one who succored me
with smoke rings from his ear.
Child the birdbath fills. Come, let us drink.