Mní wičhóni/uisge-beatha
The gold water poured into thin flutes;
soft lips poring over the tasting notes:
Ashy,
oily.
bitter.
The drink speaks of rivers.
The burning drink that I have swirled,
the septic wounds that it has healed,
the lifelong visions that I have seen
as the fire ferried down my paradise-throat.
Don’t let them hurt my sister, it says,
she is my right arm, and though she is mighty
the great snake infects with stony-syrup
and if it bites her
she will choke
and her people's land will go up in smoke.
Water is life
says the water of life.
Don’t let the snake seep its milk into their fighting river.
Let them drink it clean.
The gold water poured into thin flutes;
soft lips poring over the tasting notes:
Ashy,
oily.
bitter.
The drink speaks of rivers.
The burning drink that I have swirled,
the septic wounds that it has healed,
the lifelong visions that I have seen
as the fire ferried down my paradise-throat.
Don’t let them hurt my sister, it says,
she is my right arm, and though she is mighty
the great snake infects with stony-syrup
and if it bites her
she will choke
and her people's land will go up in smoke.
Water is life
says the water of life.
Don’t let the snake seep its milk into their fighting river.
Let them drink it clean.
