Cycle | poem

I used to pour the last drop

of tea down the drain. That was

before the fall, before every crumbling

piece was a ceramic wing,

before an inner solstice

had begun. I was a tool

for gods to use. Now, I am

their voice.

I drink the last drop

while the moon stretches, on the edge

of ecstatic orgasm. Think of

the oceans that wouldn’t exist

without our tears,

or holes in the earth, empty

without our blood. Think of the walls

we broke to build new ones.

I drink the last drop

while two girls across the street

stumble in high heels

like children playing dress-up.

I would too, if I knew

how to follow lamplight.

But I’m not quick to kick, spinning

into the night like a leaf - no, I am

everlasting

and cold.

I am the the final swig,

the ending sip.

I am the seed you never spilled,

but drank ‘til the last drop.