add up—
puddle pond lake ocean—
until the whole planet drowns in watery lies.

Noah’s ark?
It has been adrift for centuries now.

I know because Noah and I are friends.
I asked him once: “Why did you build it?”
“To save the world,” he replied.

I gotta be honest: I think he's lying.

His social media followers seem divided
with some suggesting he has a God complex
and others wanting to know who made his sandals.

I spend my days in a corner of the ark,
wrestling alligators, cracking jokes with a pair of hyenas.

During a storm, a dove lands on my forearm.

I gaze into its eyes,
more needy than beady,
so I tell it a whopper:

“There is a land without storms, lies, and no need of prayer.”
The alligator sneaks up; in one gulp, the dove is gone.

I close my eyes and swallow, “We’re almost there.”

Amy Segerstrom’s poetry or prose has been published in Prometheus, Gypsy Cab, Volume One, Rochester Post Bulletin and Barstow and Grand (November 2024). Her writing is also featured in Spilled Ink and Second Thoughts and Goodbye to Lonesome Valley. A retired counselor, she is a resident of Mondovi, Wisconsin.