Water

Water is a medicine,
the first one we ever encounter:
floating on the briny sea
of mother's womb,
refreshed by the rich flow
of blood and all it carries,
food and air
and mostly water.
When you are ill
the doctors and nurses say
get plenty of rest
and you should try
to push fluids
down your throat
into your body
as much as you can stand, because
water is a medicine.
Water should be a medicine,
should cleanse and heal and renew,
the way tears should release
frustration and anger and sorrow and guilt and fear
rather than increasing our
emotional turmoil,
rather than increasing our
shame and lassitude.
Water should be a medicine,
except we poison it
with 'flavor' that causes cancer
and 'sweet' that causes senility,
or with more conventional poisons
like lead and arsenic
and the tailings of mines and factories,
with mysterious rumors
and bald-faced lies,
until the only medicine,
the only solution
the cup holds
is permanence.