a friend and sister—eyes gray as prophecy tide, true and spilling over like a cup overflown— tells me this cup I have drunk anoints me, and what else can it be but slow sudden drip over the crown of my head, and I think of Lot’s wife—the one who looked back in desert flame and turned to waterless husk, rim of salt on glass—and even my own turning You undo and remake until I am water breathed flesh once again and each tear shatters to oil, and even this, word joined to water-lit phrase—
to be anointed—
spills from infinitive to infinite choice like white dove from shard of sky, and I choose You again, a cup full of rain, poured out without end
Photo by Pierce Papke, Unsplash
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