I took the water she gave me, a dark young woman
in a “Spanish,” off the shoulder, ruffled blouse—
a cover girl, almost (like the maiden on the Sun-
Maid raisin box), remembering to smile for tourist
cameras, a bright “wine-stain” birthmark
on her arm prominent as she calmly
ladled draughts from The Fountain of Youth
into a paper cup, whose contents ignited
in noonday light. This was St, Augustine,
Elorida, summer I was six going on seven.
Too young to see the paradox, I drank; and waited
for legendary water to transform my life.