i’m in the bath before
it is drawn the waterline rising
to my ankles and only yet
lukewarm. when we
were kids she’d
bathe us in just two
inches, a wan bar of soap
passed between
our chins, a plastic cup poured
over our heads down our backs
we curled like two
seed pearls
strung together
shivering, skin
aglow.

tonight i go and i
am twenty years older and i
turn the silver knob all the way
to red until it stops and
cannot go past.

i sink deep, spread myself
into a flounder on the bottom
rest my feet up on the edge.
i go under to the mist-light
beneath the swirls of soap
turning islands and peninsulas out of
arrested air.

caroline brings the matches like
i knew she would. she doesn’t ask
questions. she is good, switches
off both bulbs and shuts the door
even clicks the…