bars of soap 

no one respects the windows anymore--
the precipitation has been breaking in 
with all of its forms-- last night, waking
me up with the bluster of snow in july
i went to shut the window & found it
already closed. down/upstairs there was
the clunk of a knife slicing soap.
our bodies are made of soap, you know?
the snow lathers my like two hands 
in the sink. that's you with the lavender--
with the alarm clock slung out the window
like a ladder. the power's out, again,
you say in a voice the comes from the ceiling
& not you mouth. there's no room for soap
when you change houses like pairs of socks.
knotting the door knobs & mis-matching 
front porches. i drive & park on a door bell
& it smells like cucumber melon. for my 
fifth grade birthday (i think i turned 11?)
we went to soap shop in town. around a table
in the back room, passing around oils
to smell. papaya & mint & good karma. girls
make soaps. rubbed in between hands. it's funny
because i sliced your body out to make
myself cleaner-- made the bed/sink 
turned the faucet over our heads while
the rain disrespected the glass window--
soaking us to our bones-- our bones 
bubble & sting. i want to smell like tea
trees when you're done with me-- like 
chamomile & rose. i've spent too many
years playing make believe that this
act was going to clean me-- out out 
damn spot-- as if there was enough 
to scrub all the blood out of me. is this
snow or suds? in the backroom i watched 
another girl slicing soap, thick hunks
like a slab of meat or root vegetables 
for stew-- my mother was there filling
the crock pot with soap & water. i got in
& invited you, but you politely declined.
it was a bit awkward i don't blame you.
i pressed my face to the skin of your
neck to inhale but you just smelled like
a body-- no rain or vanilla or pine tree.
they taught us how to wash our hands once
in home ec class & demonstrated, saying
make sure to get the wrists. you do that 
with me. you get the wrists. i make
the motion of shutting a window even
thought there are non in this room.
who makes a room without a window? i'll
build one of soap so that there's somewhere
to wash myself when your bones run out
in the sink.