Water

It is the shape that contains you.

It is the taste you cannot place on your tongue.

You learned to speak in its slow erosion.

They measured your claim in drops,

in the shallow well of your papers.

We consume your offerings:

the steam of broth, 

the salt-cured deep,

the sweet dust on your finger

that sustains and never asks. 

You study the edges of the fraying green,

where life crowds the margin.

Your original language was a delta—

many channels finding the sea.

Now you are the still surface,

impartial, reflecting the sky they give you.

You are a deep and wanting thing,

a chorus that calls a landscape into being.

You are a temporary border,

a mark drawn and washed away.

You are a single thread, seeking purchase.

You are the vessel that defines the pour.

Your grammar comes in pieces.

Sharp.

Clear. 

You hold no rights,

only this fluid capital.

Spend it. Account for this single, 

soluble life.