drought

And she asks its name but I know it a hunger and illness. Two rival brothers quarreling in my chest. Holding back air from my lungs the space they play their war in my heart. And I scream a silent call to end and begin and something but fire. Fire is the response. A fire that consumes my eyes in its urgency for a quench. But drought. 

And so my legs run of will not mine. Run to a food a drink a famine a fire. A thing. But a no thing. And she asks its name.

Yet my tongue is removed. Cut by the hand of the wind. From my mouth its blood speaks a trail of escape. Fleeing like a snake from its drowning pit. 

My arms have no strength. To hold the ropes and spears away. From their fiery trails across my flanks. My muscle atrophied in the tears of the night. 

And enemies abound in void and shadow. Enemies of familiar face who know my secret name. Enemies of charm and disarm. Enemies of embrace and displace. Enemies of love. A wall from the table.

And she asks its name. And I know fear.