Robin Turner
Thirst
One night before bed she left sugared water to cool in the old blue pitcher by the kitchen sink. Nectar for hummingbirds, the ruby-throated and the black-chinned, flitting and flickering feeder to flower, sweetgum to pine. It was summer in East Texas, a full year and then some in pandemic suspension writ large, ever larger, its end advancing, then receding, receding, a mirage destination, always just out of sight. In the morning he rose first, put coffee on, pulled open the blinds. He stared out at the gardens—red roses and thorns, bright cosmos and basil blossoms, sunflowers reaching all along the back fence. He poured tap water from the spigot into the countertop cannister, noticed the water in the blue pitcher, poured that in too. For days they would drink from it in small sips and great gulps as they went about their work, their daily rituals, a vague new sweetness strange on their tired tongues, their parched lips. How little it took to grow small, then smaller. Perfect and quick. Iridescent. A glimmering. How torpor gave way to turning. How thirst made of them tiny holy things.
Robin Turner has recent work in One Art, Unbroken, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, West Trestle Review, and elsewhere. A longtime resident of Dallas, she is currently riding out the pandemic in the Piney Woods of rural East Texas. She works with teen writers online.