I do not sing in the shower
I do not sing in the shower;
Instead, I compose poetry.
After the final rinse I scamper,
half dressed [half naked?]
back to this compartment,
flinging warm droplets on the walls,
my skin still steaming.
I am clinging to those verses
that only come to me in water.
This is what I remember.
Earlier this evening
In the cyclical, mechanical motion
there is my need to push you away
[farther or further?].
If it is geographic distance I seek,
my pedaling feet are moving me nowhere
and this precious sweat is wasted.
Perhaps these muscles I’m building
[tearing and healing, stronger now]
are in resistance to the memory
of your touch that lingers in my tendons.
My bones have no say in the matter.
After I have regained my breath,
I seek refuge under water, in a sheet of
shock that curls me back toward the curtain,
until my nerves recognize the heat.
[They are too impatient to pause and
appreciate the luxury of pipes].
I comb my hair with straight fingers,
just trimmed and soon to be polished.
The crevices of my hands that might
have still held follicles of you
are sliced off and filed down
to the very tips.
Just a moment ago
Finally I feel clean, and in this element
[where water penetrates air]
poetry seeps into my pores like lotion.
One last drenching, and I step out
to face the frosted window.
How much of my peach silhouette
is discernable from the other side?
I wrap my head in terry-cloth
[such a comforting texture]
to contain the damp verses
heavily coating my hair and
already dripping down my back,
and suddenly I find myself
stretched in these sheets
[cooling in the air that dries my ink],
pressed against the fibers that have
yet to be washed of you.