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One breath. That’s all it takes
to know you’re alive. Our bodies
contain mostly water. An exhalation
refreshes those deposits in our
lungs, our hearts, our footsteps.

Fill a clear glass with water.
Take a deep look. Take a long
drink. Taste a piece from this
world. Digest flesh from a flower,
a cloud, a road, a favorite toy.

No discovery seems medically healthy.
You come from earth, and earth
sticks to your innards. Another
cycle for stars, moons, animals
to envy. But hate can only dreams.

Touch a friend’s face. It leaves oily
molecules on your fingertips. Rain
washes those elements from
your skin, separates from water
and returns them to sink faucets.

Take another drink. Swirl
a liquid breath with your tongue.
Swallow national monuments,
gravestones, your lover’s lips:
Sometimes, you can taste history;
and sometimes, you taste yourself.