Not Quite Venice by Deborah Davitt

April 2024 | Utopia Science Fiction Magazine

The waters rose
right to our doors,
and we built our houses higher,
ground floors lost
to the surging tides.

The foundations wobbled
like loose teeth
till we poured soil down the stairs
dirt dredged from islands of earth
transported home
by gondola,
load by precious load

at first, the waters
were gravy-brown —
smelled of swamp and sewage,
riddled with silt,
with salt,
with the remnants of fertilizers.

Snakes still swim here;
gators,
mosquitoes —
the bayou’s stronger
than the lagoon

but today, the waters reflect
the blue of the heavens above,
send the color dancing
over the white plaster
of my house’s facade.

We build up,
reaching for the haven
of the skies.

If we change,
if we adapt,
we’ll survive.

Originally published in the April 2024 issue of Utopia Science Fiction Magazine.

Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her poetry and prose have appeared in over seventy journals, including F&SF, Analog, and Lightspeed. For more about her work, please see www.edda-earth.com.