For five days, the rain fell.
Inched across the ceiling,
bubbled the walls.
Drops bloomed beneath the window ledge
trailed vines towards the floor.
When I laid my daughter down to sleep
the pillow was soaked
deep red, dyeing my hand.
A treacherous puddle glinted below.
I took them out of the room,
laid a mattress on the floor
"we're camping out," I said
Tap, tap tap went the rain on the door
cold fingers reached down the ceiling and walls.
Nothing can be fixed
till the rain stops.
The way out
is blocked by a pool full
of dirt, debris, and torn bags.
I wipe the floors.
Line the windows with towels.
Overhead. the plane shrieks
like a phantom diving for the kill.
Listen to the thunder, my daughter says.
When there is lightning,
does God tear a line through the sky?
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