I am struck down by the warrior sun in the desert.
I am a string attempting to stand.
I cannot move my legs—
They are stones hammered into the earth.
I cannot lift my arms—
They are branches felled by a storm.
I am a house unable to move,
A hoary salt bed cooked entirely dry.
Depletion is my abrupt affliction.
I am a well filled at bottom with sand.
I long for a jug of sweet water,
For a bundle of fresh steaming bread
To bring life to my legs, hope to my heart—
Who will bring me wherewithal for my journey?
Originally published in Marathon, Issue 7 (February 2015)