hot water

in the big-window apartment
we held seances for hot water.
once, in the middle of the plum
we bit down on the pit. you were bare.
i was reaching. i spoke into the faucet
like a telephone receiver. the landline 
in my parents' house was a portal.
i cradled the phone book & tried to find
my friends from school. sometimes though
i would just read names & houses.
numbers spilling from a hole in the wall. 
the apartment was awful but also home. 
our upstairs neighbors wept & fought often.
always worse when the hot water wasn't working.
sometimes i'd run the shower for thirty minutes
hoping that breath would come only to
give in to the cold shower. my bones 
wind-chiming in the rain. the ceiling 
in the bathroom leaked wildly. the building
clamored & shook. my childhood home 
rattled too only for different reasons. like,
it wanted another dog or there was no one
on the phone even though my grandmother
was talking. i have housed & been a house. 
we were not a family who took our shoes off
at the door. i thought it was strange to do so.
i loved to be an outdoor human. windows
& doors open. the hot water had to be summoned
there too. hands placed on the walls. 
a soft prayer. offerings of sunflower seeds 
& orphaned socks. the last week in that apartment
i dreamed of living in the shower. becoming
a fish. my roommates would have to buy a bowl
& cradle me into the bruise. i told them this
& they forbid me of it. i should not have told them
of my lush & selfish plans. i could be a beautiful
beta fish man right now. once during 
a cold shower i heard the neighbor above me
humming. or was it a ghost? i had been furious
at her for her late-night music & thunder feet. 
in that moment though we stood rain bound 
together. i found myself hoping her water
was hot & glorious.