At a certain point
I started wanting
that texture, that color,
that I couldn’t name
but still could feel and see,
still could taste

(at the back of my tongue,
the place before the swallow,
the place of longing
and satisfaction)

(the color of water
when you drink it,
the clear and the shine of it
as it goes down)

And the longing settled
in between my toes,
urging my feet to find
the steps ahead

Time to move out of the narrow place,
time for a new yoke —
the yoke of freedom itself
with the consummate attention it requires
to keep myself
within the present dewdrop of its taste.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 22, 2019