Pam R. Johnson Davis

The water glass is almost empty.

Deadlines are looming - yesterday’s items

clutter today’s to-do list. I should get up

from this seat, molded to the shape

of the softness of my body, a familiar dent

in the pull towards the brink. I am reminded

this glass replaced the one given to me

by a former lover. The last gulp of water

beckons me to swallow my pride,

add my wrongdoings to the list of tasks

due for recompense. I forget the refilling place

is a few steps away. I remember the water.

I carry what I need to my mouth. I drink

forgiveness, for you, for myself. 

I was barren. I was life. I am replenished.