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.