Napo 10

The Gospel of High Water

Some people say “Come Hell

or high water.” I think of the Hell

that high water brings

every time I drive across the bayou bridge,

every time I see a raincloud approaching from the gulf,

every time a drop of water falls,

unexpectedly, onto my hair.

And I remember the Hell of high water—

Middle of the night evacuations

With the cats loose in the backseat

Of the car, meandering the mazes

Of closed roads, flooded streets,

Shuttered windows and gas stations.

Even the refineries knew better

And shut off their bright lights,

Their flare stacks, their smoke.

High water as a way of teaching you

How to pray. How to let go of everything

And leave it all behind. How to select

What really matters. How to trust

The chaos, to roll the dice,

To close your eyes and drive across

that road that might instead be river.

The gauges, the bayous, the floodgates—

All false senses of security. The Hell

Of high water obeys no rules,

Fills neighborhoods, houses,

Nostrils, lungs. Come Hell or high water,

we say As if calling it, inviting it, proclaiming it,

Beating our chest against the sky,

Come Hell. Come high water.

Show us all how powerless we are.