The Vocabulary of Drought

The water stained the plaster overhead,

and Mrs. Gable looked to me for what was said.

I opened up my mouth to find the name

of the thing that holds the light, the wooden frame.

But the Spanish word was buried in the grit,

a heavy stone where the syntax used to sit.

My tongue felt thick, a dry and useless tool,

forgetting every lesson from the Sunday school.

The ceiling dripped, a slow and steady beat,

while I stood silent in the humid heat.

The bridge is gone, the words have turned to dust,

leaving only salt and settled rust.