The Desert Drink

Dry and tearless sand, and iron heat
that curls a breath above my grassless feet.
Ironic. That I should find this water glass,
transparent crystal. A slight effervescence in its perfect mass.
That my fingertips love the grasp so exactly well,
when I cannot drink,
because this is his.

I remember the lost past, some flowers,
liquid pink scents, and friends.
The rough skin of my hands is peeling a lament.
My lover when I pretend.

I caress the cold glass
and breathe its happy mist smile.
Send my eyes into blackness
and dream away the desert for a while.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.