Fountain (ten of cups)

By Zoe Brönte Faulkner

I’d say it must be something in the water 
but we are too far away now 
to feel the ocean’s pull. We stand on cigarette  butts 
instead of sand, I have nightmares of the rats  in the
alley crawling inside. I miss the tide. I grow pale 
and parched, it’s symptomatic. In the evenings I 
shower as if waiting for the water  
to absorb and fill me up like a sponge. It never does.
I have faucet eyes. Now that our drains are blocked
I worry I might flood our red-doored vessel. When
pennies appear on my bedroom floor 
I insist I must be dreaming it, our house certainly
 isn’t made of marble and nobody is wishing on it. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s