Thirst

Laura Cronk

Unclouded third eye and lush

red wings.  I’m pouring water

from cup to cup.

 

This is the water we are meant

to drink with the other animals.

There are daffodils by the water,

 

a road leading from the water

to the shining crown of the sun.

My white hospital gown—

 

off-the-rack and totally sane.

My foot unsteady, though,

heel held aloft, missing its stiletto.

 

Nine months sober emblazoned

on my flat chest in red

below girlish curls and mannish chin.

 

You can’t see my eyes.

You’ve never seen them.