OLD TRICKSTER NOAH
The floodwaters never receded; the dove
dived for the olive branch, came back with kelp.
Noah, that old trickster, held everything up
to spinning mirrors and convinced us
things were well. But Ararat was an island
not a mount; forty days was forever, and now
we trudge through underwater cities
seeking dry land. Even our deserts
have oceans above them, filled with souls
who missed the boat. The sound of bodies
smacked against the timber hull, their cries,
their silence, still charge the water
like whale songs or cold currents
plunged lower and lower. We worship motion
while everywhere the weight of water
slows us down--that, and remembering
their faces as they drowned.
Dave Rowley is originally from Sydney, Australia. He now lives in Seattle with his wife Tina and their son Finn. Dave's poems have been previously published in Mimesis, andwerve and Autumn Sky , a fact that utterly fails to impress Finn.