Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue Two

Charles O'Hay


We move so quickly from thought to place and back that we forget: water is our mother. Not the woman drunk at noon on cheap sherry, not the woman quick with her paddle, not even the woman who mends us with strands of her own hair, or kisses us from fever to forgetful sleep. But water. Our birth mother, who soothes our scars, wipes away our doubts, eases our thirst, and readies us with song for each spill across the rocks. The one in whose hands healing lakes rest, whose rain reminds us: we are neither salt nor sugar alone.