the day you left
our water went, too
jugaad,
barren bore well,
too many bodies in one building,
I count excuses, listen
for spouts
faucet handles twisted
empty mouths
gape black.
even our filter-
empty
except for salt deposits
nibbling at the plastic.
it’ll take three days,
they said,
for it to be fixed.
a tanker will come.
lips dry, cracked
at the seams,
buckets half filled,
teal paint peeling
the water from the corner shop,
more bitter than Marah’s,
but
I had no power to make it sweet.
I asked your vanished shadow
for at least a little rain
and in the midst of summer,
I saw two clouds,
white pockets heavy
with rain
but they went to the mountains.
at dusk
a lone tanker
rusted red
crawled up our street
spilled
half its hold
on splintered pavement.
when it departs
a shallow spurt from the faucets
fill the flat with
gargles and whines,
a single drop
lands on my palm.