(after hurricane helene)

You dug the shit trench, I took two hydroxizines.

Zach’s dad traded a case of water for a case of warm beer
He gave me one

I took a sip for every Red Cross van that passed us by
their drivers   waving.

We watched as the French Broad swelled   then snapped
we watched our drug dealer conduct wellness checks

I found a shrew with crawfish eyes in the second story gutter,
you saw a tree wearing a t-shirt and pants

I crushed ticks with the stupid moons of my useless manicure,
you paced madly   behind cadaver dogs through ruined coffee shops and skate parks.

Deer laid on the side of the road in a deranged sleep
the neighbor said she saw a sink hole   with teeth

before she left last road left out of town.

Jeph skitched a ride with us, two chainsaws strapped to his back
last I heard he was living in a tree with a broken arm.

Saige found some old Gatorade Zero bottles          filled them from her creek
spared our weary asses    my kingdom for a drop

for a flush bucket   how long we made make do but
I wasn’t counting   anymore, nor asking

why how   on earth   this storm how there’s no metaphor for it.
How you chucked a stick   into the river. How it sunk.

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Originally published in Issue 15 of Fine Print

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Britt DiBartolo is a poet and bookseller living in Asheville, North Carolina.
Her work has appeared in Peach Mag, Everything in Aspic, and Tilted House.