Why Dehydration Was Invented

Originally published in The Minnesota Review 

Why Dehydration Was Invented

Summer of white corn. Blood brothers
descend the steps into Xi’an, holding

each other. Huskies are only planted
by bad men. Summer of red

beans & milk. Drink pond water
if you want crystals

in your kidneys. Fill your bus

with the same humans to and from.
Don’t pull your brother with you

if you fall. It doesn’t matter
how many coins the men give the church:
the ceramic gods can still hear

their pockets. A husky is a dog breed, not
a kiss. Summer of dark pines, deep roots.
In this heat, prayer hurts more

than knees and throats. If your brother stumbles,
let his weight drag you to the riverbank,
where thirst materializes as cuts

in the soil. A headache is religion
with fear for legs. Summer of decay, soundless

beneath the undergrowth. Drink pond water
if you want to live. & if you fall, pull
your brother with you until he snaps

in half, body broken at the altar.
Don’t be afraid. We are all bad men, thirsting

for water that belongs to no one. This is how
you survive when the clouds are made

of chalk. When the bathhouse
has closed, & the cows don’t give
milk, & the villagers don’t leave

coins anymore. Love is conditional.
In this heat, hickeys become cherries

without pits, their stems hostile
for neck arteries & dying

to germinate. & when devil’s ivy
sprouts from your brother’s body, you

have won. This is how
you know you have won.