The day before the levee breaks,
a woman builds a paper boat
out of overdue notices
and lets it drift across her kitchen floor.
Her daughter folds spoons into antennae—
tries to catch voices
from a radio station that doesn’t exist
but still hums like something alive.
Outside,
the neighborhood leans toward fire.
Mailboxes swallow letters unopened.
Doors forget how to open back.
At the bus stop,
a man tapes Polaroids
of things he’s lost
to the underside of the bench:
a dog’s tooth,
a ribcage x-ray,
a love letter with half the ink eaten by mold.
This is
not an edge
but a ritual of almosts.
Some call it surviving.
Others call it rehearsing for disappearance.
The woman lights a candle
under a colander
and says it keeps the roof from falling in.
Who are we to argue?
By dusk, the paper boat
has made it to the front door.
No one opens it.
They just watch.
Social Media Generator
✖