After the ﬂood,
Noah moved to a dry county,
swore off all alcohol,
and never again in his life prayed for rain.
He let the few animals he still had
roam freely around the yard,
much to his neighbor’s dismay.
The ark, tipped on its side,
was an eye—sore, especially
after it began to crumble and rot.
Noah refused to use the wood for anything—
no ﬁres, no doghouses, no fence posts.
To him, it was all death,
a decaying hulk burying itself in the earth
decade by decade.
In every dream, Noah pictured himself
as a worm, crawling as the waters came.
He was carried away, unable to breathe,
rocked and pushed, until he’d wake in his bed
gasping for air,
the darkness pouring into his human throat.
- Update on How I Write