FLOOD DIARIES:ENTRY ONE

there is still so much i cannot parse / while a blue-black wolf paces my bedroom window / the unfinished painting of a calavera woman behind my door / that reminds me of the big brown-knuckled uncle who hung himself eight years ago / the ambulance sirens in the far distance / under the rain at my feet / beyond which sits a sopping dog whose owner / left her to the flood / i think: / if dogs are watered down wolves / maybe i might be a distant cousin / to the plum-mouthed sky’s / bloodletting / and if i save that dog / from drowning / maybe i won’t feel so empty / anymore / so i do

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INTERLUDE

a true story: / in the first grade a girl said / my flesh wounds reminded her of bubblegum / or wrung-out taffy / and i cried / because no one had ever said / something pretty like that / about the public places / my body bled

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FLOOD DIARIES:ENTRY THREE

it’s monsoon season
and somewhere
in another state
(arizona)
a half-sister
who i have never met
drowns three times over
where in mine
the water wishes me well
i think the worst tragedy
of them all
is how she dies
not knowing i’m thinking of her
me, dunking my head
in bathwater gone cold
her, displaced by rain
and white people


Elisa Luna-Ady is a soft-eyed Chicana from Southern California. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Vagabond City Lit, Spy Kids Review, Noble Gas Quarterly, and elsewhere. She enjoys reading texts on revolution and picking fights with people. She tweets @astronomyhoe.