Patron and Veins

[isabelhershko]

Beneath a bloated sky,
sack heavy and pregnant with rain,
the olive branches bend
to the rhythm of shower songs.
 
Somewhere, you are drowning.
In nicotine, in thread.
In everything but dew.
 
The floodwaters ignore you.
Slip their fingers into different homes,
give away your chorus.
 
Knuckles brined like forgotten soil,
an upwards caress to the hollow desert.
Scoop the tears and sow the collection.
 
Desperation is a rusted boat,
nickeled red.
 
I can feel the begging in your bones,
the tornadoes in your knees.
Your tongue plaque white and
every word is like a cave.
 
 
He is the adage, sick with salt.
 

                                                                                                Water, water everywhere.

                                                                                                Nor any drop to drink.

 
 
The clouds give birth,
a sun red brilliance of Patrón and veins.
The doctor clocks out and
you are the night nurse.