I recall the bucket of coopered staves to lower,

splash and feeling the weight filling.  Soft rope,

braided and frayed winding round a slicked-log

spindle cranked by hand up through a squeaking

pulley would bring the bucket of water up to us.

I claimed first sip from the tarnished tin dipper

made cold to my lips by the wells sweet water.

 •

If I caught him in a good mood, Old-man Carter

would sigh, lean his cane and lift me up to stare

down into the cool, unquiet, enticing darkness;

his private black hole protected by lid and shed.

Tall, taciturn and humorless, I though, he told me,

“A woman hides in the well and sings to me.”

“You drink the water?” I asked. “I do.” he bragged.

•

Even at five, I knew people told lies or as

Mama called them: stories.  You’re telling me

a story! she would allege puckering her brow.

A thousand siren songs pulled me from the well;

decades falling away before I knew her name;

the woman beneath the water down the well

who sings to sooth and protect her only child.

•

A goddess, yet still, only a frail creature hiding

from those that would disfigure, abuse, and

malign her for the songs of truth she sings;

holding Virtue, sweet child, tight to her, she

watches for descending light, a face above,

an ear attentive to voices other than its own.

“You drink the water?” you ask. “I do.” I brag.

•