The word I meant to utter first was water:
“ater,” couldn’t form the double-u, my apse
for mother’s aureole, drinking in. That thirst
has salted me: years later, water comes again
in membrane, memories arcane predating mine
with fluid newness much as Helen Keller came
to agua, lingua, letters impressing her palm. Now winter
makes leaves of my skin. Osmosis, Moses, every cell
a mouth: I ought a draught of this — I daughter
want and water. Gullet, origin of tongue. A river
long past sun, its lavender is shaken by the dark.
Come in, my child, we want we wait you owe us.
Dive in, O. Divine us.
Copyright © 2004 Meghan Hickey. All Rights Reserved.
Source: Poetry Magazine (May 2004)