A concrete floor floods above the rug

and then sets for a while –

the stagnant reflection of paper

on the walls. You once swallowed

a love letter so that your belly

would expand and be full.

the wax falls down

onto the disposable tablecloth

sprinkled with false-died flowers.

you watch the days drop –

drown and dissolve into tiles

as mushed-up corners, petals pressed

together as birds. pleading,

we eat off the floors.

we’ve counted the nights of rain

and the mesh screen door

that swings and smacks into them.

all the while, papers are disappearing.

I will eat in this river

for dinner tonight. the rolls

unraveled and ruined from floods –

too much this year.

you once set the table in tears

that stayed in place

like fish eggs, or water petals

on the reflective covering.

———-
Delia Rainey is finishing her third year at the University of Missouri in Columbia, Missouri and is a poetry intern at The Missouri Review.