Woman at the Well - John 4
Bluegrass vibrations, juice harp thrumming
on the porch. Thursday night, my husband
drunk in the humidity, and another man's hand
stuck on my thigh. Thunder muffles
in dark clouds. Rumble my heart,
bolted mind. In these moments between
heat and light, I pant truth - before sweltering bursts
the bonds of nitrogen and they begin swapping
partners, shuffling off into the fields that are ripe.
Everyone drinks and gets thirsty again. He parts
his lips, muggy breath on the back of my neck,
and for a second we are between
theory and experience, sowing and harvest.
Between worshiping on mountaintops or in
the temple chambers. Someone refill the filthy cups.
Sober us with cold water. Tomorrow afternoon,
I will walk alone to the deepest well and throw myself in.
Drop to the bottom like a stone, becoming
just spirit and truth, leaving my jar behind.