The Floodwhen they finally returnedthe house had split along theouter cornerswater had burrowedunder the floorboardsknocking them up and into criss-cross patternsunder their feetfloated furniture hadpunctured the walls andhe thought the whole abode had ran itself apartas if to fleefrom a crimea muddy linesat neatly across the windows bottom halfso they could both see where the flood had peakedthat nightshe couldn’t go to the child’s roominstead she sat upon an old potato box in the placethey use to call the living room– already numb fromthe doxepinshe needed that morningjust to make it backhe walked outside himselfin his own hazeand was already dizzy andweeping in stifled joltsas he reached the placeat the hallway's endwhat was left of the child’s doorsat against the far wallthe broken cot was overturnedin pieces against ithis knees buckledlike tiny twigs under anenormous weightand he found himself strewnamongst the broken floorboards