Sarah Colón
Waters of Life
“Drink waters out of thine own cistern, and running waters out of thine own well.” Proverbs 5:15
I want you to understand:
the urine was a gift.
It arrived, the color of sunlight,
in a Styrofoam cup
from the Messenger’s own body,
to treat third-degree burns.
The infant screaming.
His mother distraught.
She soaked cotton balls
in the fragrant liquid
and dabbed it on his skin
already beginning to peel
and darken. You would not do this.
You would never say,
Here, let me heal your child
with the divine fluids of my body,
but we believed in signs
and wonders. Thirty years later,
his mother tells me his chest never
scarred. And here’s the strangeness:
whether by God’s will
or by the healing properties of piss,
we were witness to a miracle,
dazzling as a field of marigolds.
Triplex at the Doomsday Compound
I was built in the womb of a factory plywood
stapled to studs wrapped in aluminum siding
they covered my walls in wood paneling
they split me in thirds first I was home
to the people in red they danced on my floors
they sang they fucked joyfully in my walls they
fucked joyfully in the streets and bore no children
they brewed fresh salmonella behind my doors murmured plots
to throw the election
then the Godman was deported I waited
in an auction lot with my brothers
until a fleet of trucks carried us to the Teton Ranch
there I was home to the people in purple
the Guru Ma came with mantras she flung
herbs into my corners she cast out bad spirits
whole families lived in my rooms rolling out foam mats on
the floor at night they prayed fervently before bed and on
waking they placed heavy crystals
on my walls they left their children in the night
to pray prayed ardently before lovemaking and after
they slashed the air around their bodies with swords
they had children and when the children grew
too many they left and a smaller family moved in
they started to whisper about bombs
they started to whisper about the bomb
chanted fiercely suddenly there were two families
in my room dragging long duffel bags of clothes
and weapons and one night nobody came home
not even the children not even the babies
the morning they trudged in their bodies heavy slow
laden and some began unpacking and stayed
but more began pulling their things
from my walls I felt them lifting from my floors and
and I was empty light plywood
Sarah Colón is a poet and educator from the American West. She grew up in a religious cult preparing for impending nuclear disaster. She teaches high school and lives in Largo, Florida. Previous publications include The Examined Life, Flash Fiction, and Just Words Fallacy, and forthcoming in The Account.