A cold glass of water against this heat

Laurie Koensgen

I can’t let it rest
on the table without
causing a ring—

a humid halo,
a planet’s misty caul,
concentric swells a fish makes
in the stillness
of a lake

or, as if you wet your finger
in the pool of your tongue
and circle my glass’s rim
until it performs a singing bowl’s
holy solo.

My fingers trace
the wet ring on my thigh.
Glass in hand, I wait for you.