Last Island

In the Hundred-Year flood,
as the North Valley fills,
I stand at the top of the hill.

The cracked roads bubbling / gasping
at last, the willow draped over us
like the lightest of weeps.

My mother sleeps, here in ashes
in the roots of this monster,
she is here where I should be.

Sleeping as if for ever
and the smallest hint of it—
in even seeps from its case.

I return where
the fate I made will culminate here
in a consumption;

a consummation.  

Let us call it Genocide
For A Family Name.  And
without revealing to each other

the grim expanse; in keeping
with our self-destruction;
we hold our breaths at the end.