Believe in baths

If God is water, then Sundays
are reserved for soaking in the tub.

The bath salts fizzle and crack,
I hear the snap of the candle —
this one’s called cashmere plum.

I pump my legs like riding a bike
against a lukewarm tidal wave,
hoping the words will come.

I guess I’m thinking too hard,
so I focus on the follicles,
proud and stubborn,
protruding from my sweating flesh,

and the candle wax drips.

I swipe my razor,
but the soap is misleading.
it’s not enough
it’s never enough

paving the way to a perfect shave.
(I still feel the sharp parts.)

And then it occurs to me
that every bath is baptism.

There’s so much left on
this earth, in this tub
for me to accept.

No one is ever loved enough.

After the great plunge,
I sit up, drenched
and heart-quenched.

I latch onto my elbows,
hug my knees,
these knobs
are not smooth or soft;
but they’re something to hold onto.

I bend my spine crane-like
follow my folds,
trace the watered down lines.

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