drought

i microwave my halo to get it ready.
mom says, "suck on your tongue."
spit is a kind of holy river. the grass
turns all potato chip by the pool & everyone
is jumping despite there being
no water. i remember the weeks
after i grew wings. no one wanted
to talk about it. so, i flew over
the small suburbs & dropped love letters
on strangers heads. you can get 
so thirsty that you start speaking
a new language. that your put your ear
to the ground to listen for springs.
i only hear static. 
i have never been good at finding 
new wells. instead i take my teeth out
one at a time to use like hard candies.
to my surprise, some of my teeth had 
initials engraved on the bottom.
most mysteries are just red herrings.
call my parents' house to weep.
no one usually picks up. i leave
voicemail after voicemail. once i spoke
& pleaded, "come back." the rain cloud farm.
plucking one drop at a time. 
each so fucking sweet. 
once, my father took us to the aquarium
after he died. we are a family
of resurrections. none of the tanks
had water. the sharks wore halos just
like mine. we pressed our faces
to the glass. string rays like paper plates.
when it was over we all went to stare 
at the river. shoes & skeletons 
& even an old ship waited there. 
i wondered how hard it would be
to be a ghost. would i miss them?
all around us, water. water in our lungs
& water in our fishbowl eyes. 
before i knew it i was alone again. 
a disciple of a faucet. washing 
my face with air like i am now. i haven't seen
real fresh water in years. if i had some
i have to admit i would not share it.
i would cup my hands. swallow it
like a stolen crown jewel.