18

Like the Mother Mary mourning the loss 
of her flesh, waves crashed onto 
the mainland. A flood of holy water
yanking palm trees by their ponytails,
 slamming through the front doors, 
  clawing at its walls.

A house once the top prize 
on the top pedestal, abandoned 
at the tingle of hair standing up 
on the back of one’s neck. 

Family photos with scribbled-out smiles, 
blurry faces. The salt 
as sweet as sugar 
washing away all traces of debris.

Deteriorated paint and damaged wallpaper 
drooping half-way down the 
wall, scattered lilies blooming, 
breathing in the water.

A table on two legs balancing rose-colored glassware 
surrendering to its knees. Water 
trickling out to return to 
its ocean womb. Damp 
wooden floorboards erasing 
scratches and scuffs from shoes.

Underneath 
the chipped pink paint 
 and the smoke-brown wallpaper 
  and fist-sized holes, 
a blank canvas of drywall awoke 
like Aphrodite from the sea— 
clean. No more traces of tears, 
cracks, or fingerprints to see.

Eliza Surdzial

Hurricane St. Agatha through the Eyes of a Coastal 
Florida Timeshare Purchased through a Costco 
Membership circa 2017



19

The home’s skin shed like a snake’s
with every scratch and blue bruise
carried away.

A shredded self-portrait sewed together 
with heartstrings and saltwater 
paper mâché paste revealed itself.
Torn but familiar, 
 wrinkled but in-focus— 
a puzzle not with 
missing pieces but with a revised 
reflection overlayed
that’s clean 
 and free 
  and new.