we sink half an inch every year "soon, we'll be up to our ears in water"
not a creature of fury, just of habit the moon pulls her to churning, to crashing. hotter water temper tantrums rush the brine into our basements soaking scrapbooks in salt until it crystallizes faces
and yet i cannot blame the marsh
for reclaiming what was never ours and taking even what was as penance. but i refuse to condemn us for shaping shorelines into lives because things are so much clearer when they turn with the tides. we’ll grow gills in time,
we have to.
the ones who stay on land could never handle shifting sands don’t know we cling onto the inlet with white-knuckled hands. they never grew from buried roots, seeds are just flotsam in the sea so they’ll call Frank O’Toole crazy when he can’t bring himself to leave.
This poem is a reaction to a clip used in a John Oliver segment on flooding (here it is for context: https://youtu.be/pf1t7cs9dkc?t=985 ). In it, he was quick to make fun of Frank O' Toole, a man from Broad Channel, New York who had his house destroyed by Hurricane Sandy and rebuilt it in the same spot, despite constant flooding, because he couldn't see himself in any other neighborhood. Growing up in a similarly close-knit (and similarly threatened) neighborhood fairly close to Broad Channel, I sympathized with his determination to stay right where he is. Shoutout to you, Frank.