When I part orange floral curtains
in obscured sunshine, my sadness grows
no more profound. Black hairs
prostrate on the half-wet tub a vestige
of an earlier me. My accordion heart,
my baying accordion heart is
drenched in absolution, the blanket
of suds that coat my state
of being. I wish I could tell
you that everything is okay,
but I look up to the faucet
and the pressure says nothing–
the world is a drowned white
noise soundscape I am trying
to listen through. You are out
there, somewhere. Eyes closed,
the chill haunts me when
the water turns off, as
steam becomes the memory
I breathe.
(originally published in AvantAppal(achia), Spring 2022)