Water Study

The women carry bottles and pails, 
earthen jugs that swing from belts 
around their hips. They pump water up 
from the rusted well, its copper taste 
beating against stone then coating 
the insides of their mouths. 

This is the taste of wealth, they tell
their children: green as algae, rich 
with minerals and the sediment of life 
after life long before you. Be thankful.
When the taps gape with foul rumors 
of hot air, you learn to pray 

for rain. Every ear can cup 
part of the ocean. Snails wash 
the walls of their spiraled houses; 
the reeds are efficient at up and down,
in and out. And we, running around 
with upturned mouths and faces. Take 

a spoonful of broth laced with 
mushroom spores, spiked with one sinew 
clinging to an oily bone. Close your eyes. 
The fronds in your chest rattle from 
long dryness then exhale as slowly 
as curtains threaded with mist.