When we're looking at houses,
we ask our realtor what neighborhood
isn't so close to water and he scoffs.
This whole town is surrounded by water.
The Atlantic, the bay, three rivers.
There are local legends of peninsulas
formed in the wake of nor'easters—
or maybe some god spitting furiously
out of his mouth. Barely two months after
we arrive, we put chairs on top of the dining
table, fill the tub with water, and contemplate
leaving town. In 1749, the Chesapeake rose 15
feet and battered everything in sight. Every
rain that goes on for days could lead to
catastrophic flooding. People used to hold
hurricane parties, but I don't think they do
now. We listen to the news on the radio
about rivers in other parts of the country;
how many have been rescued, how many
are still missing. How the houses bobbed
on roiling waters like toys in a giant drum.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
