The well’s run dry.
I pour the remains into a dirty cup.
Dirty enough to ignore thirst?
My stench convinces me; I rub my skin raw.
I sit in my dead brother’s house,
waiting for the downpour.
“He’s not coming back,” I remind the cat.
“Go find a mouse.”
Thunder rumbles; I tilt my head skyward,
willing the clouds to release their prisoner.
The first drops bring lightning;
sky succumbs to storm.
I run to fill my bucket,
cracked lips smacking.
I weep through laughter,
tears equal parts salt and rain.
“Thank you,” I whisper,
“You came just in time.”
Erika MacNeil is a dancer by training, teacher by trade, writer on a whim. Community leader, ally of the marginalized, advocate for the underdog. Look for her work with Rice Paper, Neon and Smoke, and Archived Press. Her writing strives to make something out of nothing, stemming from the person she used to be, then curated by the person she wants to become. Find her on IG @hintsofgrey.
Featured image by Mike Erskine on Unsplash.
