Coins for a garden of hands.

My copper drum

Is full of empty water.

 

I take this uncalloused hand

To pick a flower; its petals I pluck into

The pit of copper water

 

I place the final petal on my tongue

And coax the smell of God through me.

 

People pay to smell like me

A distilled divinity they flaunt around.

They step on calloused hands

On their way to barren fields

 

They cannot buy living water.

 

I make fragrant, bitter liquor

A sip I swirl around,

Spitting out golden heresy

 

My breath carries over hands.

 

My bath is full of tomorrow’s water

My drum is crusted

With the wrung flowers I sleep upon

 

People pay to smell like me

But it is only I that filters

Such salvation.