The Flood, by John Tessitore

The Flood (from the Sistine ceiling), by Michelangelo (Italy) 1508-1512

The Flood

Once the hand stretches
to wipe the slate clean, 
we’re already too late.
Only the work of living
can compensate 
for what comes next,

as the tide rakes the rock line,
drags the wreckage
miles from the shore,
brims the broken banks
and spills into the streets,
as an acid wind eats
the foundations of our folly.

Cling as we may to structure,
by our nails, by our teeth, 
everything falls eventually
to the tug of the core,
the tug of the moon,
two directions to ruin. 
Death is water, and gravity.

Where is Sixtus, Alexander, Julius?
Only their servant survives,
impressed into labor, to build
a beauty that will not wash away,
not by rain nor damp
nor salt of the sea, not yet 
slipping into the swampland 
of the Tiber that settles, 
settles, sinks into itself.

His image still stands,
a battlement of flesh, 
all that is sturdy in muscle and bone
now writhing an orgy of survival,
a desperate wrestle for breath

as the first creation crests,
their backs rippling like waves, 
their legs swollen as they strain
for footing, for anything firm.
One fragile lover holding another.

The tension is primal.
So too was his answer.
Presume no permanence.
Prepare the plaster.

John Tessitore

John Tessitore has been a journalist and biographer. He has taught history and literature at colleges around Boston and directed national policy studies on education and civil justice. He serves as Co-Editor Across the Pond for The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press. His poems have appeared in a variety of books and journals. He has published several volumes of poetry, a novella, and hosts a poetry podcast, Be True, available on all major podcast platforms.

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