Here in Switzerland
the fountains on every corner remain
burbling and bubbling their constant streams
of fresh water from the corpses of dying glaciers.
I stand, a silent statue atop one such fountain,
staring, observing a pair, unblinking, to see
a woman peering into the piddling pool
as a man prattles on.
She places a flask beneath the faucet
I glare down from atop the spout empty with envy.
Not full.
Hungry.
A ceramic child hangs from my mouth, still more
spill out: wriggling, writhing from my satchel.
How I wish I too could partake in the drink,
clean, crisp, cool
But I am content to share this moment, this shared meal
with strangers who drink my mountain water
raising ein Kind, a silent toast, to our kinship:
May I one day partake in her drink
& she in my cannibalism.