Sunday, July 7, 2013

Poem 98: Turning to Water

neither here nor there, 
often nowhere at all. 
no matter
alone I am 
my own 
home, the only one 
who can offer me 
a place 
to rest

weeks 
   and months 
      and years of flight
my heart is tired 
now
I cannot count on you 
to wrap it 
in liquid aqua silk 
and kiss it 
goodnight 

I cannot count on you 
to see the ocean
drop by drop
being squeezed 
from my body 
until I am parched 
and fevered

I can 
only count on you 
to hand me 
a tepid glass 
of tomato juice 
and tell me it's pure 
cool spring 
water

even were I stupid 
   as you think I am
I could still see 
the color 
of blood turning 
to water
through your fingers

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six