i wake up and don’t recognize

the ceiling at first.

after the hurricane last august flooded

the space between carnality and rationality,

we began balancing pots

on our head to protect ourselves from

the acrimony that dripped between the cracks.

it left stains on the kitchen tiles and

bleached the velvet couch with anarchy

we disguised as artistic liberty.

sometime last night, when i forgot to pay attention,

the paneling caved in.

this morning,

the storm’s delayed vengeance

licks at our ankles with a persistence 

i confuse for affection.

my wine glass jumps and lands on its feet.

we laugh and pretend we’ll deal with the mess tomorrow.

for now, we wash ourselves clean of sins

sanctified under moonlit midnights.

seventeen years in the making,

cicadas caterwaul outside the cracked window,

giving voice to our anguish or perhaps

our exhilaration. the kind we dare not utter

lest the clouds wash it away

as well.