Strawberry Shampoo, Sweet and New and Not Meant for Cleaning Babies.

By | 31 October 2021

I was washing heirloom dishes in her stone house when I first felt you slip.
A ping and then a hurt. You were a secret then, raspberry speckled toilet paper,
stuffed inside my pants.

I rode the 333 express to Brontë, but I was in no hurry.
Rough waves broke. Hope and anchor held, the surrender seemed to stop.
I smoked half a rolled cigarette there, on the wall by the sand, and didn’t fall.

It was after midnight when you really came away.
No hesitation in the rip: pain emptied me. Half-bent in a frosted glass shower,
I fished you from the threads.

There you were, an unformed thing, already loved by me.
A breathless, beatless, ember uncradled to the drain.
Sticky, I pushed you down.

Metallic aubergine and sick soaked through my skin,
in a place that was not our home.
So, I washed myself scrubbing hard and quick with

strawberry shampoo, sweet and new, and not meant for cleaning babies.

This entry was posted in 103: AMBLE and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.