Yield

by Matthew Kohut

The morning after the second flood 
during a rising wave of plague, 
you smell its stench in your sweat
as you cut limbs from fallen trees—
primal fear of Creator and Destroyer. 

After the cortisol and adrenaline wane, 
liberation comes with acceptance:
this house a boat in a storm,
every boat an eggshell on the ocean.

It breaks you like the old roof
that springs a thousand tiny holes.
It pours in from all directions and runs 
between your toes. It rises until
you float out the front door on your back,
breathe, stare at the sky, and yield to water.

::

Matthew Kohut has worked as a writer, teacher, and musician. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tar River Poetry, River Heron Review, and The Dewdrop, among other publications. He is the co-author of two books of nonfiction.

Image: Nathan Dumlao

ID: Small ocean wave. Black and white.