Woman at the Well - John 4
Bluegrass vibrations, juice harp thrumming on the porch. Thursday night, my husband drunk in the humidity, and another man's hand stuck on my thigh. Thunder muffles in dark clouds. Rumble my heart, bolted mind. In these moments between heat and light, I pant truth - before sweltering bursts the bonds of nitrogen and they begin swapping partners, shuffling off into the fields that are ripe. Everyone drinks and gets thirsty again. He parts his lips, muggy breath on the back of my neck, and for a second we are between theory and experience, sowing and harvest. Between worshiping on mountaintops or in the temple chambers. Someone refill the filthy cups. Sober us with cold water. Tomorrow afternoon, I will walk alone to the deepest well and throw myself in. Drop to the bottom like a stone, becoming just spirit and truth, leaving my jar behind.