One day at the public water station
in the refugee camp, the flow slipped
to a trickle, thinned and choked.
There was nothing. Only naked children,
their young mothers, empty plastic
jugs, and a smell of tiredness—
so much effort for a simple bath, water
to drink. That same day as the indifferent world spun,
someone turned on the shower, let it run and run
to hot, steam starting to bead on the mirror—
stepped into the clean torrent, unaware
of what slips down the drain,
moves through pipes into the earth
This poem also appears in Sarah Dickenson Snyder’s chapbook, Notes From a Nomad.
About the Poet: Sarah Dickenson Snyder has two poetry collections, The Human Contract and Notes from a Nomad. Recent work will appear or has been in The Comstock Review, Damfino Press, The Main Street Rag, Chautauqua Literary Magazine, RHINO, The Sewanee Review, Front Porch, and Whale Road Review. https://sarahdickensonsnyder.com/
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