For child survivors of floods and
   hurricanes in Central Appalachia 

Mamaw’s boy had a wide smile that shined, 
messy straw-blonde hair and clearwater eyes.
Come summertime, he and the neighbor boys would wade 
in the creek, fists gritty with rocks and all that wriggles underneath. 
He’d come to Mamaw’s after and run through her house;
she’d chase him across rugs, linoleum, hardwood.
His laughter trailed like bubbles into every room. 

That was before the thousand year flood. 
Before twelve hours of rain became twenty feet of water.
Before the creek bank unhinged like a broken jaw  and the hollow road lost its gravel teeth, muddy gashes like bloody gums. 

Before, it was summer vacation
and school was just a week away.  

But when Mamaw’s boy woke up,  
it was a new kind of day. A day for survivors. 

 The creek had come to wade in his own front yard, 
murky water lapping at the front porch steps. The neighbor  
boys were busy mucking out their bedrooms, sifting through debris and throwing away toys. They were serious, like grown-ups, frowning at their phones. Breaking news 
replaced cartoons. Schools distributed supplies, volunteer teachers packing the waiting 
cars with bag lunches, toothbrushes, spare clothes. 

Before the mud could begin to dry, brush fire 
flames licked light along the ridgelines. 
All that Mamaw’s boy saw turned his clear eyes cloudy. 

Now he trembles every time it rains. 
Now he cranes his neck just over the creek bank,
checking for rising water. Now he plays inside on screens
or in silence. 

When Mamaw asks him, How come you don’t 
run through the house no more? How come you don’t 
play with the neighbor boys no more? How come 
you ain’t excited for summer no more? 

His lips form a culvert—