she holds the water in her mouth

she takes the water in her mouth,
spits gravel in her hand.
she drinks the blood too,
which like oil, sprouts from the punctured land
between each tooth.

they tell her the gravel is a gift,
blood another souvenir of struggle.
she wants to believe in the water;
to know if she can wait long enough
the debris becomes crystal,
an heirloom to pass on.

but the delta tastes of metal
pressed through a hundred teeth
all trying to understand the same.
she accepts that in order to live
she must drink.
so with sanguine lips,
a pocket full of silt, she begs
her god
please a little honey, please
or else hold the tiny fractures
until her mouth
becomes the shore