because we have had such little rain
and so few nights of knowing hope ran down our rooftops, i settle into sleep on visions of him far away so far away that memories of his smell forget my body and it softens. the rivers flow year round and curtains shift on summer mornings lifted by the fledgling ghosts who walk unplanted orchards and will never call me mother. in these drought years we reach our roots so deep, we forget the way our fingers splay, forget that what sustains us is still ours. forget that, in our famine reach, we don’t just drink but conjure, bring life into our sustenance that cannot be unmade. the years will come when springtime rains swell in the gutters, and he is gone from me and we make peace with our lost pieces, and break our bread with the spirits wandering our homes. there will come a day when i have drunk so many visions that they become my marrow, and i am free.