Water and Sirens

Let's try a different art form today. Here are two poems I recently wrote:

Water

When we go out
she orders two glasses of water
as if she's a withering plant
unable to have hidden
from too many days of sun
the lines in her skin
exaggerated by parchedness
hair, straw-like, though
I saw her in the shower this morning
her need is urgent
and I receive a menacing look
if I question this
when the amused waiter arrives
with three waters in hand
(though I considered not getting
one to avoid attention)
the first water pours easily
down her throat
almost finished before we've
given the menu any serious thought
she smiles modestly
her eyes express relief at rehydration
and for a moment the shine of her skin,
the sparkling golden brown of her hair,
and her wet lips,
speak deceivingly of fulfillment.


Sirens

when the rain starts
I know
that soon
sirens will sound
sound
and wail

as if the heavy drops of sky
are a final slip
that loosen our grip on life

flashing lights rush
to crumpled cars
to frozen bodies
whose blood runs hurriedly
through strained veins

and I lie in bed
tucked firmly in my covers
uncomfortably warm
listening to the sirens