Interbeing

Time holds her like a hand at the throat
when brass pot goes into the mouth of a well.

Words hang to the rope, distended into sounds –
slurps and gurgles that surface through saliva

poured into a glass on the table. Clear water
decanted of desire, fire of longing. As the sun

slices her face in the shadows of warmed bricks
phlegm threads in the food she brings out

slowly, laboured like this poem- words chunking,
spasmodic, taking her breath away in the effort.

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