there’s a flood but it’s inside me. there’s a flood
but it’s made mostly of sand. there’s a flood but
you wouldn’t have named it that if you’d had the
choice. whatever you call it now it’s still a flood.
I’m calling you honey baby my sweetest darling
and I’m getting flecks of glass all over the carpet.
no, it doesn’t hurt. in fact, there are hazy rainbows
in the grits between my teeth. how charming. the first
time I saw you I finally understood how people are
made mostly of water. you might as well display koi
fish in your backwards sternum, with lily pads. sorry
I was told in moments like these you ought to be honest
-or was it kind? okay. the first time you spent the night
we fell asleep with our foreheads touching. in the morning,
we parted like halves of a wishbone. when I mentioned your
sternum, I meant to say I think of you as a constant marvel.
by now, the carpet has become a kaleidoscope that’s fracturing
your mouth across the room like pink confetti. can you see it now,
the way we’re both brimming over? even the koi, spinning
in pairs through your miraculous chest, are jealous.
Emma Rebholz is an undergraduate Writing, Literature, and Publishing major at Emerson College. Their poetry has been recently published by or is forthcoming from Souvenir, Maps for Teeth, Blueshift Journal, and tenderness, yea. They probably want to be your friend.