Thirst

I’ve done my time on the Mountain of Desire.
My steps were heavy the entire ascend, and none
of the waters
were mine to drink from.
Lady Want rules up here
she spoke to my parched lips,
words that ran down my throat like avalanches in spring.
We were burying
old hurt,
covering old ground.
In a tower
I’ve sat waiting for pilgrims
to carry morning dew
in lady mantles to my
lips,
and pretend they were holding
rivers.
If anything roared it was not the water.
I wait for dawn while I contemplate
how much water
can fill a mouth
gaping towards the moon like a lost sunflower.
The next pilgrim can lay her lady mantle
down
and Lady Want
can lick the dew from the hollow of my throat
before I
leave

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