Mouths
slightly open
like pitchers
holding whatever happens to be on our
tongues
waiting for words
to cool
to room temperature
as to not shatter
the glass
we pour them into.

Hands
bare
bearing
and receiving
simultaneously
gifts
from a god
long gone.

Mouths
closed tight
damming the out-pour
damned by a fury
worthy
of gods.

Hands
clenched
and raised
in anger
in despair
in surrender.