Drought by Liz Napieralski

Tending by Kelly Louise Judd
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Drought

I see your godhead each morning. Early, before noontide. I am outside, sipping coffee, watching for rain. You, also outside, hose in hand, each drop a wasted revelation. You, with holy burst from spout, you with sage-wet brow. You avoid my eyes; focus instead on agastache, lavendula, alcea. Rivulets rise, severed-artery blood-let in the red-clay dust. I open my palms skyward; receive the mist like a blessing. You, by day, Water Deity in waterless summer. At dusk, the desert palms against your gate, anhydrous and thirsting. At night, tricksters rise from your puddles and walk.

 


Liz Napieralski

Liz Napieralski lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. If you were to steal her purse on any given day, you’d find a ridiculous number of pens that she’s not terribly generous about lending to others, far more lipstick than is really necessary for one person, and a notebook shamed by all the scraps of paper she inevitably writes on instead. (And not much cash. So don’t steal her purse. It’s not worth it.) Her poetry has most recently appeared in vox poetica, ditch, and Third Wednesday. Find her at womanlygrowl.wordpress.com.