On Showering

Days gather in the roots
        of my hair—the salt of them,
the sea—and I must send them
        underground, to the rust-
crowded lattice of pipes
        we buried there like instruments
of music unfinished,
        and so I leave my clothes
on the bathroom floor,
        crumpled like bats that fell
asleep midflight, and the water falls
        from the showerhead and I say
thank you to the water
        that touches me and does not judge
the way I survey the bed
        of my body,
does not judge this new
        width around my waist,
or how compulsively
        I search out the skin tags
that have been with me
        so long they might as well be
old ticks turned flesh, and I say
        thank you to the nameless
skin cells sloughing off,
        which are also me, I say
thank you to the lost, long hairs,
        pressing them against
the shower wall like a broken
        word scrawled in a broken cursive,
and I hate to waste anything,
        every night the television
threatens the end, the desiccated
        reservoir of its empty chest,
I know men and women
        could drink this water
I choose to stand in
        longer than I need to,
thinking of everything
        that must be done before sleep
catches me again in its rip
        current, thinking of a woman
I love whom I stood with
        in this same shower
and saw her with my bad eyes
        wash herself, and as the water
carried off our deadfall
        and our sweat she watched me
in a way I never thought
        anyone would and called me
beautiful, beautiful, I am
        sorry for daydreaming,
I am sorry for feeling
        sorry for myself, I step out
clean, I say thank you
        to the water that washes
what I once was down the drain.