We rise
before the sun
pierces the night.
Before dawn has a chance
to press
on our heads,
baking us
with unrelenting heat.
Muma rouses me,
sounding as crisp as wind.
“Amira, come.”
Does my mother ever sleep?
We wake
to walk,
many miles there,
many back.
Taking so long, this journey.
Slowly
we go
for water.
But, aakh, the return.
Aakh, the ache
in our backs,
through our legs.
The riverbed fills our empty, wanting vessels
with the wet,
sloshing promise of water.
Weighing heavily,
pulling our pails
down,
down,
down,
bending branches into arcs
that make
the ache
stay
all day.