WATER

This six ounce plastic cup of water,
slapped down and spilling a little,
with a menu, fork and paper napkin,
is a new covenant.

I hear it say, "Drink this, you,
in remembrance of this molecular mystery,
that what is in you and you and you
is also in a six ounce plastic cup
and in the deadly truths of thirst, and drought,
and water wars, and tidal waves.
In the ice on Titan and the mud around the blueberry bush.
You baptize and make metaphors
and remember to drink your two liters a day
just so you can say that the great IT IS sent you,
with a promise more precious than blood,
by boat, breaststroke, and drowning,
all the way down through your life."

Water.

I lifted the cup and drank:
let water pass my lips,
surround my tongue,
embrace my teeth,
penetrate my throat,
and rest in the pit of my being.

When she asked, "what will it be?"
I said, "I'm fine with water."

7/24/15