Parable of the Well by Rachel Reynolds
A well dwells. Damp mouth
I can't taste and don't
remember swallowing.
As a child I tossed a pebble in
to test its depth, but lost
count and came up gasping.
Next I flung down my voice
and clothes. The second
muddied the sound of the first.
We soon fell into a rhythm,
the well and I. I baiting her
with salt tears only to plumb
her lines like a private eye.
She thwarting my every
attempt at perception.
Older now, I've lost a number
of gold hours and earrings
to the well. I've learned not
to consider their retrieval,
letting hope down like a pail.
At noon on windless days
the sun strikes a match to her.
I voyeur through a glass.
Foolish me, thinking to pry
eyes open upon her daily
as knives to clams.
Knowing full well she's in
the wheelhouse of the moon.
High time I heeded
well warnings and kept my
heart's estimations to myself.