Three Glasses

By Sloka Kadiyala

I look ahead of me and see,

three glasses full of water,

temperature different of each,

so, I sit and wonder,

under a thunder,

which one to drink at all.

The first one warm,

but what if my tongue goes torn,

with blisters all over?

But what if the weather wears thicker colors,

making me want to choose the one colder,

and what if I enjoy it so much that I never look at another?

drinking it over and over until my throat goes dry and I catch a cold.

And then I'm left with the most common, normal and kind of sad,

Do I really want to drink what everyone else does too?

No adventure, no hurdles,

Just a straight cut route to just quench my thirst.

I look at the three glasses in a dilemma.

And maybe—

maybe it isn’t about the choice itself,

but the thought of choosing at all.

So, I reach for a glass,

feeling the weight of water,

not knowing if it’s right or wrong,

but knowing it’s mine.

And as I drink,

the thunder fades,

the questions still but don’t disappear—

they’ll be there tomorrow,

or the day after,

waiting for yet another glass.

By Sloka Kadiyala