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.