By Kathleen Holliday
For My Siblings
As if drought could ever empty it
the well of grief glimmers full
topped up like a bitter drink
we never ordered.
That last August on the farm
the water level in the well so low
we dipped buckets down
into the galvanized tank
beaded silver like sweat.
As if we could ever carry enough
water back to that house on fire.
Copyright Holliday 2023