This womb

The woman curled
up in a bath
remembers a woman
in bed
in a white room
of her own undoing;
a body tight as a fist;
a mind unraveling
like a scroll.

Maybe smallness
is our way
of making our way
back to our space.

The ultimate cradle.

My hands droop
in the water
like flowers
with bent necks.

“Choose the life
laid out in front
of you. Feel its
aliveness. Its
calm vibrations,”
calls the woman
in my bathroom.

I want to believe
that my body
is a field of
green energy
but my eyes,
catch a glimpse
of white room,
porcelain tub,
walls made of
chalky plaster.

My chest falls
as she asks me
to concentrate
on sincerity,
on what is
important to me.

I reach for
my yours truly,
my serious
what is love face.

Should I reach
for what’s to come?

My body floats,
and the room hums.
The heater turns
on and off
like raspy
breathing,
but breathing
in and out
nonetheless.

This womb
is filled with
warm water
returning me home.

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.

Total body stretch

Alexa and I stretched today.
She laid out a blanket on the floor
in her room.

Her room is blue.

It’s covered in photographic memories,
discolored thrift finds
worn by use and age
and someone else’s hands
that handled these finds
from time to time,
in coming and going.

We grew up a little in this room

and stretched alongside a woman
on a screen.
She wore tube socks
that covered her entire calves
and grazed her thighs.

When she pulled her limbs,
we pulled ours.
When she rolled her head,
we rolled ours.