This poem appears in the Summer 2019 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.

The torrent swept away the hunting cabin
That he’d spent every weekend on—it took
Him seven years—and piled the wreckage up
Against the Route 9 bridge for all to see
(They’d know it by his trademark bright blue door).
Somehow, he blamed this on her lack of care.

To hold his anger back, she thought so too.
What her friend said—a flood’s not caused by lack
Of anything—she knew. But knowing never
Made it safe to keep a home together
Along the dirt road where it got dark early
In shadows under Glastonbury Mountain.

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