She speaks of the time
when  the dam cracked
and a once passive river
came down from the hills roaring.

Water overflowed  the banks,
flooded  the memorial park,
crossed street after street
right up to her family’ s doorstep.

It stayed  there for a week
like an unwanted  relative
ringing the bell over and over
though they’d  no intention  of letting it in.

The town was smothered in mud,
and dead trees, and horse  flies
she swears were as big as the equine
that gave them their name.

Eventually, the flood receded
but it didn’t restore what had been there before.
Not with the heat moving in.
And the silt as foul-smelling as corpses.

She says that three people died
but many more lost everything,
And  so many animals were  drowned.
And crops. And gardens.

The townsfolk spent the entire summer
cleaning up both outside and in.
A few just gave up and left  for  good.
The rest  agreed that life would never be the same.

Some politician said that steps were being taken
to make sure it would never happen again.
He was referring to the dam of course.
But folks took him to mean the town they knew.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.