Poetry from The Well

Mother’s Mouth

Lukewarm blood barely stirs

When I splash in again and again like

Ice cubes eager to melt her heart

Some days she sucks me dry

When her air’s like desert air

I wait, puddled, for the next rain

My eyes are old and dry

Still watching for her pale lashes to

See through things, to

Come together in wet clumps

Our wide hands look the same

But I didn’t get her mouth

Good thing, or else how could

I sing with no voice?

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