What if . . .





the floods

never came



and



the years of plenty



was just



propaganda



perpetrated

by pharaoh





I’m standing . .





at the river’s edge



and



for miles

there’s dust





sand . . . .





falls like rain



the exodus

never happened





plagues . . .





have come

and gone



famine



has left

a bitter taste

in my mouth



my bones are arid . .

saturated with thirst



my tears run dry

to carve canyons

in my cheeks





my saliva

is as glue



that sticks

my tongue



to the roof

of my mouth





there’s no way out

of this sin





the years of plenty

have succumbed

to years of naught





there’s no way in

even from within





I'm floating  . .


like moss


facedown ~


along the river's edge



grasping . .



for hollow reeds



already plucked . . !





they make paper

to tell this story





I drown again





even though . .





the floods

never came . . !



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