Wednesday, 16 April 2014

14. Scour

A memory: saying a word
I knew I should not
to feel it burst like a plum
in my mouth.

And: touching a thigh
I shouldn’t—I knew—
but who knows where thighs go
in the dawn?

My mother took soap
and scoured my tongue, with
crushed beetles, bile, frenzied pink.

And the word turned to bubbles,
lodged in my neck

to be hocked up later
    in beds, on backs,
pinned against the wall.

Last night I descended
into bathtubs. 

I scoured my skin. I am still
that girl, who will make
a fast thing mine. Who will taste
everything with tongue.

The loofah smelled of
pine & peat,
distillery casks.

I wallowed in bubbles.
I wrote your name in foam.

I soaked in the water until I
was already clean.

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