The Woman at the Well
By Jacqueline West


There are gifts, and there are gifts:
a full jug, droplets glistening on its lip,
a pregnant girl between blue walls.
There are seeds that surprise us.

The woman at the well holds out a withered hand.
The well is deep; she has no pitcher.
The water, an invisible song underground.

There are stones on the dirt, as rich as ripe berries
to hurl at her, each new bruise the kiss of sin,
and there are voices, disapproving eyes;
there is modesty dyed into indigo linen.

She begs you. Her lips are dry as bricks.
The bucket creaks on its second drop,
tugs and turns in the distant wealth.

There are lilies waiting in stone-hard soil.
Each act a balance, an annunciation,
a reward that falls from her mouth like pearls.

Jacqueline West's work has appeared in journals including St. Ann's Review, Inkwell Journal, flashquake, Briar Cliff Review, Barnwood, and The Pedestal Magazine.  She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  More about her work can be found at www.jacquelinewest.net.

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