Written during a Slam Poetry workshop facilitated by Chris Best on Saturday 29th October 2022.
The final draft:
There is water.
Don’t use the f-word.
We are still open for business. But everyone checking. Screens on the counter. Screens in our hands. Screens next to the bed.
The chatter of our community Facebook group swells with the sound of water: seeping, roaring, dreaming, screaming.
I’m at a wedding. I’m at a BBQ. I’m at a 3year old birthday party. I’m at the shops. I’m at school. I’m at work. I’m at home in my bed.
The water keeps rising. Quietly yet.
I didn’t buy a four-wheel-drive ten years ago. I bought a Kia Grand Carnival to carry us home. 92milimetres of rain. Too much. Too quick. Tyres sinking. Skin flecked with fear. One bar to call for help. Make it count.
The water keeps rising.
The water is salt. The water is skin. The water is me trying to let the light in.
Water under the door. Filling the hallway. Filling the floor. Don’t say the f-word. Screaming through the current. The little tells and stains of a life. Insurance never covers what was lost. Community cracks open. Looking for the helpers. Looking for the how.
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The first draft:
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water is salt. The water is skin. The water is me trying to let the light in.
The water keeps rising.
Flood warnings trickle through. Don’t use the f-word. High river levels. We are still open for business. But everyone checking. Screens in our hands. Screens on the counter. Screens next to the bed. Screens back to then and back to here, and now we’re all checking. What were those levels? What were those warning? When is this meeting?
The chatter of a community facebook group fills with the sound of water: rushing, seeping, creeping, roaring, dreaming, screaming.
I’m at a wedding. Wearing a rainbow with an unbroken smile as the sky breaks overhead. I’m at a BBQ. Wearing jeans and the smell of dread. I’m at a 3yo birthday party. I’m at school. I’m at work. I’m at home in my bed.
The water keeps rising. Quietly yet.
I didn’t buy a 4WD ten years ago. I bought a Kia Grand Carnival to carry them all home. But now I’m trapped in the mud and the muck trying to get out after 92mm of rain. Too much. Too quick. The tyres sinking. Our skin flecked with fear. One bar to call for help. Make it count.
The water keeps rising.
Thick potholes in the overtaking lane. No-one stays left (anymore). Trucks at 40 and we’re all banked up waiting, just waiting. To get through. To get home. To get out.
The water keeps rising.
Fairytale edges of a wide-flat land. Seeping into the lines on my palms and the softness of a jawline I hide behind.
(nothing is worth anything. everything is worth everything)
The gutter is growing green grass and mud. Water pooling under the door and filling the driveway with brown. Flood water is always brown. Don’t say the f-word. Streaks of mud and broken things. Things ripped from where they should be and forced down-river. Through the current. Dragged screaming through the current. The little tells and stains of a life. Insurance never covers what was lost. Community cracks open. Looking for the helpers. Looking for the how.
The water keeps rising.
Slippery fish I try to catch with my hands. No fishing line. No worms. No calm weather. Just rain pelting into my face and wind tearing my mouth open into a snarl. Because sometimes rage is all that is left. Sometimes we are just moments that have nowhere to go.
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water keeps rising
The water is salt. The water is skin. The water is me trying to let the light in.
*
creating art in the desert 