well water

my favorite place in the house
is not in the house at all
but in the little cellar
where the well lives.
the spiders there speak 
a different language than house spiders.
we all worship blood. i ask them 
what it takes to be a creature 
of their water & they say,
"years of questions." if anything
i aim to be a disciple of questions. 
the well is always 
in the neck of the question mark.
that soft & urgent curve. 
water's flow from tongue to tongue.
laying in bed last night 
we tried our best not to talk
about this country that has 
never been ours. i thought 
of the well & the water
that always finds its way
back to our bodies. little rain clouds
in the upstairs that i keep as pets.
the well froze this morning 
& i sat there in the cellar 
with the spiders. it's the coldest 
it's been all year. blue words.
a handprint on the sun.
i plea with the water. "i need
something." the spiders 
teach me their word for hunger.
it is something like "lemon"
but softer & without all the buzz.
they assure me that we will drink soon.
that they have seen the water
stop before. i look up at 
their webs. a private constellation
garden. i want to stay here
all day. drown every bank account
& every phone call. every terrible man.
drink until i am the well.
until i speak the spider's language 
& all i hear is the unbruising
of a plum in the sky.