You decide flash floods are best

watching the rain descend. The year 
before the apartment burned down, 

it took three hours to get her out. 
Your mother’s ends, planted 

in contaminated ground.
For two decades you wore 

the nervous smile of a girl 
who knows more than she should 

about water. This slow collapse 
is cruel. When outside the rain lets 

behind the wilted branches: 
orange sky & glimmer light. Which, 

you wonder, do we miss more—
the darkening of sunshine spent 

or the midday wakening 
of something so alive? 

You wonder at your own 
capacity for wonderment. Then 

you wonder: 
why didn’t I think of this before?

MARA LEE GRAYSON

Mara Lee Grayson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mobius, Poetry Northwest, West Trade Review, and other publications. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and shortlisted for the Slippery Elm Poetry Prize. She is the author of two books of nonfiction and an assistant professor at California State University, Dominguez Hills. Her website is maragrayson.com. Find her on Twitter @maraleegrayson.