By Rhienna Renèe Guedry
Our house is clouded over with milk-water,
knee-deep and thick on account of sand and clay
mixed with what we pretend to not know is sewage
In the driveway two children, raisin-fingered, pluck
objects from the deep of a ditch
What I am here to do is siphon water through
a wet vac, shoo the rest out like a toad with my broom
but my instinct is Ophelian: to make a solitary bath
of the master bedroom—no flowers, please—just drywall
as shards of soap, just lower myself down beneath
the window, to clasp the heavy drag of mauve
drapes like reeds, the bottom hem swimming with
me, like mine, suspended in the opaque: just
wet and dry and whatever you call the in between
Rhienna Renèe Guedry is a queer writer and artist who found her way to the Pacific Northwest, perhaps solely to get use of her vintage outerwear collection. Her work has been featured in Empty Mirror, HAD, Oyster River Pages, Bitch Magazine, Screen Door, and elsewhere. Rhienna is currently working on her first novel. Find more about her projects at rhienna.com or @chouchoot on Twitter.