poem

Thirst

I denied my desire to drink

Once I realized thirst

Could not be quenched.

Instead I set aside
Small cups of water
To coat my brittle lips
Before they cracked and bled.

Tiny room with a desk,

Small spiral ring notebooks,

Dense with cramped script.

Small portions had always been enough

To keep me fed:

The things I can grip

And carry when I fled.

I dead-ended deep in a forest

Up against cliffs of shale and slate

Sponged with brackish moisture,

So swollen they dripped.
Closed my eyes and and lifted my face
To the water that comes from stone

And the moss cushioned my weight.

I have always been mostly water
And water never gets wet.

All the cups must be tipped.

The beaded puddles that spread

Across my varnished desk

Coalesce, fathomless:

Deep enough to dive head first.

3/26/20