pop a palm of smooth stones
into your mouth. Suck them dry.
You will feel moisture unsettle
your gums and drip like cocaine
against the back of your throat.
Are you thirsty? Is this the water
of life, drawn from an infertile
clutch of rocks? Or is it
something else, an illusion to
assuage the thirsting thrush of
your desert tongue? To phrase
this more concisely—are you
look deeply into the blood
puddle at your feet. It is for
scrying. It is the mirror made of
you, so stare and see, teardrops
and mercury within crimson
glass. Lick your lips and watch as
your tongue peeks from your
cavernous mouth and grinds
against your Cupid’s Bow. Taste
yourself, then stop to consider—
are you thirsty?
bite your tongue and chew it.
Gnash your molars against the
root until liquid iron rises in
beads and barrels and coats your
mouth in venous snot. Swish to
the front, Spit the ichor. Are you
thirsty? If you’re hungry, keep
chewing. If you’re thirsty, stop