Flood

After the Flood, we bucket the black water
in plywood coffins and push them downriver,
one by one like toxic family members: hepatitus
grandmothers, emphysemia grandfathers, and all
we wish is to catch amnesia of the tongue: words
would surely disrupt the ebb, the coffins' descent.
I cannot forget how the death seemed to hover
like cormorants, some teetering in the cold breeze;
others whipping waves, just like trains going home.