Your voice on the phone is water.
A glass on the side table.
I fall asleep looking at it.
Water floods the bed.
My nightdress swells, I drift
towards a lighthouse,
where you happen to be,
writing an email to me.
Subject: “Water, please.”
(Is my voice water to you?)
I open my eyes, I stretch my arm out. The glass falls.
The pieces on the ground spell your name.
I wake up wet. -- Miren Agur Meabe