It was the eighties.
The river overflowed its banks.
The living room was a blender.
The stripey couch where my arm was broken,
rudely husky, 
bumped into family photos, the VCR, spider plants, Dad’s record player.
Everything a spiraling dance.
Ridiculous drink coasters mocked
Mamaw’s prized Paul McCobbs
now watermarked, 
finished.
Underwater tumbleweeds of dog hair and fingernails 
united with century old river muck,
mimicked the primal chaos that births new life. 
I shapeshifted to a mermaid,
crayfish,
mud dragon.
A bioindicator of life expectancy, post-disaster.
A survivor of a great flood.