Dry Spell

The radiator is a fist hitting a pipe

at three in the morning.

I woke up tasting salt and old copper,

dreaming of a tide that never came in.

The pitcher on the nightstand

has a rim of grit where the water used to be.

When I try to swallow,

my tongue peels away from the roof of my mouth

like a bandage off a scab.

It’s too quiet for a city this big.

Just the iron knocking

and the slow drying out

of a body that forgot to drink.