We were dying of thirst,
clamouring amongst each other
to lick the spit of women
like mothers’ milk,
we cried out, begging
for resolution,
for water in the drought.
Our lives were shattered,
children screaming
for the since-dried milk
of nourishment,
women sobbing upon
small corpses.
God, we cried.
And then you came,
a gift amongst the flint;
we had long since found fire
but you taught us
how to put it out.
It ached in the milk-light
of our bones,
a flowing stream
and tablets carved
of testaments,
of commandments
that spoke
of how we were destroying
the earth,
how repentance
is simply not enough.
And god, we cried,
we cleansed our sins,
and we cried
for water,
and you brought it to us.
Legs spread,
Mother Mary holding
women close,
the only sacrament
worthy of sacrifice.
Men falling in useless battles,
and women bringing water
to the dead.
We found a stream.
We drank.
Mother Mary sunk wide,
and god, we drank.
From a collection of poetry I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in second year of university, titled 'New Rugged Cross'.
