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POETRY

The jar still there

shifting the weight —
forearms tight,

handle slick from sun
water pulling low.

small fingers tug
at my pant leg.

the thought —
drop it.

My wrists loosening,
water leaning
the wrong way.

my grip tightens.
you come to mind.

When you walked to the well
at noon —
the jar held tight to your side,

sweat caught at the nape,
taste of salt —
thirst held back.

foot placed carefully;
sound carries.

When you reached the well,
the hollow waiting,
jar touching stone,
sound unanswered.

You saw —
He was already there.
Your breath stilled,
no place to look away.

He met your eyes,
unflinching.
He spoke what you carried
and did not leave.

You left the jar
resting on stone.

Did you laugh,
the sound strange
in your own mouth?

“Mama, I’m thirsty.”

I turn.
salt forming at my hairline.

the can still heavy,
handle warm

she runs ahead,
toward the shade.

I don’t follow yet.

My hands full,
careful not to spill —

your hands swinging
at your side.

I cross the yard,
looking for her plastic cup.

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Alexandria Marianne Leon is a poet writing about motherhood, faith, embodiment, and inheritance. Her work has appeared in The Reformed Journal, Radix, Parousia, and Foreshadow. She lives in Oregon with her husband and two daughters.

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Image: Christ and the Samaritan Woman (1718) by Sebastiano Ricci, Public domain.