Shelby Newsom
Confluence of Thirst

Spent under the pines, we lie in the shell of our tent,
first time without the rain fly. Sleeping bags unzipped,
our skin in the sun’s mouth.
We’ve draped a towel overhead to stave off day
an hour longer. Having hiked the summit early with a camera,
fog trails us back to sleep. We don’t sleep. Sun spills us naked
and we fold together almost without meaning to —
the whisper of nylon almost a prayer.

We move as all bodies move,
compelled to draw water from the lake. Compelled to drink
from the basin. Here in the wilderness,
will we ever scrape bottom? Every animal knows thirst.
Once more, I’ve fallen into your stream.
All around us, water. The hymn of ladle to lips.

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