I looked over at the well,
leapt to my feet,
grabbed a bucket, ran for it,
dashed through puddles already forming
(unattended, and overflowing),
caught the water
as it throbbed, spilled,
rose in the center,
fell at the edges.
Held my bucket,
looked about for anywhere to empty it,
found only more water,
so began to drink.
Climbed into the well,
swallowed each bucket with a shallow apology,
sank lower,
deeper, darker, bleaker,
each night another bucket filled,
each night another wet brick recovered
at the cost of a soggy soul,
of drowned words and a sore jaw.
Laid down and done against the base,
reached to my waist,
pulled out a flare,
and fired it.
My literal last hope,
there, manifested,
and about as short-lived;
except, it wasn’t a flare,
and I didn’t sit there wondering if your ship would pass
today, tomorrow, or next week.
Instead, it was the final arrow in my quiver;
it’s feathered flight forged with forever’s fingers,
designed to travel any distance,
to cross any period of silence,
to strike, and then return to me
before your blood on its tip had time to dry.
--
But what of poetry?
I drank and sank with every sip;
a bucket filled, a brick revealed.
I drained and claimed back every drop
too long forsaken, but never forgot.
These prayers like flares are final hopes,
short-lived and shot in skies for ships.
I raised and aimed instead a bow;
an arrow forged in a missed tomorrow.
It flew and drew fresh blood from you,
then returned your redness to my reach.
With tacky fingers, I began to climb,
fighting to surface before they dried.