Frances Wiedenhoeft, an Iraq/Afghanistan and Desert Storm veteran, frequently writes about her experiences with war, the impact of war on soldiers and civilians, and the aftermath of war. Equally impactful are her poems about the natural world and our relationship to it. This is reflected in her poem “After Water.”

After Water

“Doesn’t it feel cool grandma,

just like water,”

my grandson’s gentle, soothing tone matches

a trickle of sand down my arm,

my eyes are closed

oblivious to the scorched brown landscape

of dead trees and desiccated grass.

It could almost be water.

My baby grandson rolls, kicks, and paddles

through brown sand,

oblivious,

he was born after,

blessed never to have known a dive into cool depths

or baths, faucets, drinking fountains,

water bottles that could ring the earth

multiple times.

“When are we going to swim again grandma?”

a challenge more than a question,

I look out at the withered countryside,

“after the rain comes and fills the lake back up,”

my older grandson is 9,

the implications of past global greed and opulent desire

are not lost on him.

“When are the rains going to come?”

“Let’s go puddle hunting, find some water for dinner.”

Our new favorite pastime,

they team up, chanting,

 “I want water; I want water!”

half protest, half demand,

as I kneel over the small weed and algae-choked pool

squeezing hard on the hand pump

to force sludgy water into a gallon jug.

In recent days their pleas have become weaker,

powdery white salt rings their lips,

they shrivel like the landscape.

“just a sip,” I caution,

then I let them drink until their bellies are full,

their eyes are closed,

lost for a moment in the protective dream

of a lush green world and satiated thirst.

No way to tell them,

there is no life

after water