Gift
By Regan Schell
When I met you,
the universe apologized,
took my face in its
stardust palms,
pressed a galactic mouth
to my forehead,
said it had a gift for me,
in the same way that
clean bedsheets and
folded towels are gifts.
A prize that split
my hardened lips,
coaxed out a smile.
The universe smiled too,
poured out the stilled water
collected in me,
tapped the cracked ceramic,
filled it up anew.
I dripped the river down my arms
like pomegranate juice.
She laughs and departs,
leaving me to unwrap you,
to choose how to do it.
I pull back paper,
fold it gingerly,
peek inside you,
drink you like that water,
savor my present,
one so perfectly picked
and neatly presented,
thanking the giver
with each gasping breath.