You wait in the shadows,
skulking, they call it,
but experience knows where to hide,
and Lord knows you are patient.
Scathing glances and pitying looks
a stone’s throw away
as they fill their jars and troughs,
with laughter and gossip.
Sometimes a boy stares
a little too long, or a girl points.
You come later in the heat
when you can manage it.
The man doesn’t flinch,
doesn’t arch his back,
does not want anything
—save a drink of water.
What kind of thirst is that?
One that draws you out
into being seen.
Held whole at last
by sacred gaze.
