Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

I did not knock at your door on a feverish night,

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or
Even just an ice cube to slide down your
Supple spine and – burning –
Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside
Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,
But I did not raise my hand
To knock.
I answered, though.

Anyway.
I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we
Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.
And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,
Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then
Your feet could not find the bottom, and
Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.
And we swam perhaps a bit too
Close.

So.
I am still holding the pitcher, and
The door is still open,
And I am unquenched
But hesitate to drink.