Bad Things Could Happen (Revised)

After the flood
a dead smell comes into the house from beneath the floorboards.
It puts a fog on our lives like breath on cold windows.
Water condenses along the surface of consciousness.

For three nights I dream the drowned body of the man who waited to kill me.
Dead under the house with his knife and fangs.

When I leave in the mornings,
my joy for life fills the car like tears,
spilling out into the streets of the city.

A trail of joy has spread out behind me
like blood for vultures.