Dry Well

My tongue is a heavy, woolen sleeve

pressed against the roof of a dry mouth.

I woke up convinced I was about to leave

for a desert that keeps moving further south.

I turn the kitchen tap and the pipes begin to scream,

a cough of rusty air before the water starts to flow.

It comes out cloudy, a turbulent, milky stream

that takes its time to settle and let the silver show.

I fill a chipped mug and watch the beads of sweat

form on the ceramic like a slow, cold prayer.

I haven't learned how to take what I can get

without feeling the weight of everything that isn't there.