Thoughts From The Bottom Of A Well

Sitting in the deep pupil of a blue eye

Tree branch eyelashes overhanging

The eye that turns black at night

The puddle in which I sit

Holds me at my waist

Like I was held as a baby

Lifted over my parent’s heads

Laughing in that magical way

That you gradually forget

That gleeful giggle

That would bounce off

These cobblestone curves

The sweet sound

That I can no longer make

That last day

That I could be lifted

But it is the same throat

The same waist

The same comfort

Of being held

I can wash the well’s water from my body

But I cannot wash the skin from my bones.