Standing up

She wonders if the reason there is
no bathtub in her house is because of
fear her heart won't be able to stand back
up again, how it will recline, never drowning
but always on the brink of sinking.

Shower before eight pm,
cover up the hips you can't place your
hands on to de-accentuate them,
step in and stare at the drain that
seems symbolic from a distance but
when your toes touch the edge,
can't recall its purpose.

Maybe she's trying to cleanse her
soul, nurturing her words like thrown
aside seeds that her body will be a temple
instead of a hoarding place for secrets.

Let the water boil, don't back away when
your feet become as red as lobsters
and the steam convinces you tomorrow
will be better but for now, forget who
you are and all your disappointing deeds.

She scrubs, using a new unscented bar
of soap so no one can softly accuse her of
living in the arms of a time well- fondled.
Can she now be clean?
Will a forty minute rinse seep into her
veins or will her skin become drier knowing
you can go days without water drops...

She all but slithers out of a stand-in
shower, not seeing the point in being its
equal and doing the same to stand on
two solid feet.

---
written 2/21/13 @ 8:44 pm