can we

there was a time when it was just me

and the water.

we sat together in ways and for times that could confuse my lungs, but that made my fascia feel at home.

buried under the glinting pools,
the murky lakes,
the crisp oceans, even
the pedantic showers

i indulged my body of water to mingle

and submerge in the sublime


source. the nourishment and sustainer. my healer.
i read recently that the colloquial framing of bodies as "meat" is scientifically inaccurate.

we are water. but we only just figured this out?

"ja' k'aslemal," the iyoom told us as she massaged the milk from my friend's tender breasts. "agua es vida," translated my fluent friend for me,

"water is life."

the tub had been warmed so the water cradled, but didn't smother.

the tz'utujil of san pedro la laguna know that, when properly applied, water heals and performs miracles.

like mixing and pulling dyes to create a singular hue of blue only possible on the full moon. or easing the swollen, clogged ducts of a bereaved mother-who-should-be.

everything changes when the conditions of the water change.


the monks at linquan temple provided boiling drinking water during the heat of the july i spent with them.

i asked and was told that it is easier to absorb,
helps digestion, and
doesn't disrupt your system.


this knowledge has been ours since dawning, across people,
cultures, and
continents
we have known what water is.
what we are.


but i recently read a story the algorithm curated for me that said we've been thinking about it all wrong,

while my phone, my only companion, looked back at me by the water.