Water by Joan Mazza



Not all water is silk,
not a curtain closed
against a mountain.
Not every rivulet runs
to a river. Not every
rainstorm beats fists
against the pavement
or hammers umbrellas.
It doesn’t even tap a tango
on a tin roof. Original
element of my birth—
I swam through you
and into this world.
Cold from the pump,
metallic taste of rust,
gift of the earth after
a day in the desert.
Water sloshes in a jug,
ice clanks, a balm
and treasure, better
than black gold or coal.

Joan Mazza
Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and has been a Pushcart Prize nominee. Author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Off the Coast, Kestrel, Slipstream, American Journal of Nursing, The MacGuffin, Mezzo Cammin, The Potomac Review, and The Nation. She ran away from the hurricanes of South Florida to be surprised by the earthquakes and tornadoes of rural central Virginia, where she writes poetry and does paper art. You can learn more about her at her website joanmazza.com.

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