I sat in the tub this evening,
feet pressed flat against the wall
under the tub spout.
I haven’t sat in the shower
since last time,
but that was a different tub,
in a different home,
in a different state.
I watched as steam rose
and water fell against my body.
Tiny droplets caught on my shins
and stomach,
pooled in the crevice of my thighs,
left trails down my face,
and soaked into my hair.
I thought about the world,
about blood draining from them —
abruptly and unknowingly —
to filter through shower heads
and cleanse bodies riddled
with ignorance and shame.
I can imagine the room smelling
metallic, metallic and sweet.
The steam would clog the vents,
sticky, and make any mirrors
appear as if a scene
from a horror film.
I also thought of you (and you)
as I stared at the green rust
surrounding the openings
in the shower head — of course,
I thought of you (and you) for
different reasons.
I sought comfort from the plastic tub
and metal fixtures.
The water weighed on my chest
like a thousand docking ships,
and the room felt bigger and bigger
as I stared off into the swirl
of the unknown.
I sat in the shower,
like I did last time,
but this was nothing the same.
I felt no gash across my head,
nor tear in my lungs.
The words for this poem
flowed, drawing me from a stupor,
and I leapt to catch them
before they followed
the water as it
drained
away.
So It Goes 