bottomless bathtub 

the sound of my eyes kept going. tub drain
speaking in radio talk voices. here we go again
with the desires for purity. as if the bone
could be all i use to live. the little costume i am.
a grinning sky. washing machine
sings to my underwear. i want to soak
but the tub fills with blood. on another night
it might fill with ants. i prefer the blood.
at least it is my own. counting birds
as they enter through the window 
& deliver their warnings of the day.
"you neighbor might burst into flames"
& "you might not actually be in love
anymore." i tear them up. eat them 
like popcorn. sooner or later i know i'm going
to have to go in there & let myself
become the abyss. fall through holes
in fishnet stockings & blinks of bad men.
it is so human to always dream there would
be an arrival. instead, i am told the bathtub
just leads to more bathtub. not a nexus
or a molten core. just on & on.
once i saw my mother as a handful 
of clay. she was sitting in a shallow tub.
it's always not enough water or too much.
i kneel at the lip & try to empty the basin.
handfuls & then buckets. poured 
onto the floor. seeping through 
to the living room below. unchanging.
there are surely sharks down there 
& the eye of a monster. i just want 
a skeleton to xylaphone myself all night.
you are not awake so i don't tell you any of this.