Turning to Water: Poem 98

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

Turning to Water: Poem 98