bathtub

at the moment spending any time away from writing feels like sneaking away behind the back of a lover - guilty, unsettling, mind always half there. i love what's happening between the pages though. things like this :

bathtub

i call you little fish
pull you from the front door to the tiny bathroom splashed with tulips in glasses,
fresh ones under the mirror and the wilted dozing over the filling tub
night falls as we sink groaning into hot water

the dancing glow-worms of arrival settle
and the mask of your face quietly melts away
til I’m staring at something
utterly new

that says breathless every time

wow
who are you?

and we can talk, love.
but we can just cry.

your being
opens secret rooms within me,
sends a ribbon of light into
prayers caves
where source water had trickled
on black rock,
veiled and unseen,
a murmur in the back
of the back of my mind,
a saint’s sigh
tearing through fields of rue and poppies
a thousand years later.

your face ripples with emotion
and you bare your fangs,
bark a short laugh of disbelief

just two strangers in a bath
flamenco playing in the background
and sparks burning holes in the bathmat

photo by Carina Adam