The tiny shower's hard water
runs over her back and onto her hair
While he rubs a white washcloth down her spine,
Like he'd done every morning for the
Eternity, for the brief moment,
They'd been together
He massages her neck with the soft material
And cleans the insides of her ears,
Penetrating them deeply with his long fingers
As if it mattered that every inch of her body
Was clean, Like if it was clean enough
She would become the virginal girl
He had hoped for
He rubs more soap on the cloth and
Vigorously makes circles of bubbles on her breasts and belly,
Trying to wash away the hands of men
Who had once touched her
So that the remembrance of his touch
Would be all that remained
An NPR report calls out in the background
A neighbor mows an immaculate lawn
A garbage truck loudly lifts a can full of cereal boxes,
Coffee grinds, and unread newspapers
But they are lost
Under the torrent of this rushing waterfall
Streaming through the middle of their suburban bathroom
He turns the faucet toward her and rinses her body
He then strongly, almost too strongly, embraces her
And she believes for a moment that he will never let her go
They kiss, drowning in the hot spray of water
that burns their skin, seeming to melt them
I read Clan of the Cave Bear
While sitting on the edge of a lake
At the edge of a glacier
At the edge of the world
And for a moment that ancient intuition began seeping through my skin
And I was as high as that mountain
And part of the lush green flesh of the earth
And I wanted to embrace every tree, every flower, every slither of grass
embrace it like a lover
merge to become part of the one
That we had always belonged to,
But had only forgotten
I ask, my courage in place from the white wine that he toasted our love to.
My head spins as he defines
"Being in love is not the emotional kind.
It's made from the wits
and not from a need."
But then where is the passion, I plead
"It's made from a love
I cannot explain, but tell me my love,
why do you complain?"
I settle into my chair and finish my wine, and sigh.
I cannot complain to him it's the need that I want the emotional heat that makes me distraught And maybe it's my youth or my list of blame that makes me want to run away, I can't explain
So I only complain
"what is it to be in love?"
He tilts his head, sips from his glass
"It's what I feel for you,
but why do you ask?
I'm settled in, as you are too,
but the emotional kind of heat is untrue
the love I feel for you is real
Isn't it the kind of love you feel?"
I can't explain I'm not in love with him
I feel no passion for him,
except for the pain at the thought of leaving
It rips at my heart, tears me apart
Leaving me a vacancy with or without
. . . and a heart full of doubt.
He sits in silence, watches me fill up my glass
"I don't think I'm in love," my feelings they clash "Are you saying we're just friends who make love? You're my companion, my lover,
But it seems I'm only your friend."
It's the perfect opportunity
but I can't do it.
I don't want to loose it.
"I'm only saying I don't know that I'm in love.
Maybe my love isn't mature."
And still I convince myself that this is the case.
Though doubt still resonates with me.