A Toast:

“Don’t pour me water until you have boiled it.”
Only then prop my chin and tilt my head and
entice me to “open wide, aahhhh” as cool icy trickle tumbles
over edge of orange plasticcup as smooth as molten glass:
the orange and the water and the cold and the dryness of my tongue.
I am thirsty. But the water is contaminated with first pioneers
of silky life. Little dots floating make me bloating unless boiling—
“Teakettle’s screaming steam!”—Mommy running from the room
into the kitchen battle cry battle sigh—grabbing little teakettle
hoisting little teakettle pouring little teakettle out.
She puts the steamed round pitcher into the refridger
to cool. Too cool to cool, too cool. There is no tap
but my uncle has drums and my auntie a tambourine, too
cool. Fast forward a day and the water is cold and we are back
at the beginning. Is it boiled? Did it simmer? Was the diarrhea killed?
Poor little pioneers of silky life—from you: who knows what?
And now you have been boiled and dead and chilled.

 
To you I drink.
To you I drink your bodies.