A Dry Well

Hope springs from a dry well
shoveled in the sand of my soul
as a last resort
to quench a thirst for love.

As vultures circle,
telling of doom
with their solemn screeches,
ready to pick dry my bones,
I extend my hand
for one last gasp's effort
to find the end of the void.

My fingers rifle through grains of sand
pushing them aside,
making a slight wound--
a scratch on my soul
just deep enough to draw blood
from the depth of my being.

The crimson droplets form a bloody bead
that grows larger.
The floodgate is breached.
I kiss my own wound
sip, then swallow the essence
from the depth of my soul.

In this moment
of self-love and self-preservation,
while licking my wound,
I find that true love
is love of one's own soul.
It is being true to the child within,
protecting him from meaningless tokens
and empty gifts.
Showering him with sincerity and love,
I break the drought.

The void is filled.
Hope has sprung from
the dry well of my soul.

Copyright by Ron Hudson, May 4, 1996. Previously appeared in Other Voices Poetry International, Vol. 5.

Categories: poetry HIV/AIDS survival hope