Salt Water Fingers

Between the translucency of water

and the cleanse of soap,

my bath has found a new color.

The tinge of bubbles stills along the edges,

covering every sharp corner.

Giving my legs definition,

and my back arch,

enough ground to be shepherded off.

To dream maybe.

Where brains travel

when they’re not thinking,

and hearts wander when they’re

no longer heavy with feeling.

Or whereas they’re so buried,

they’re weightless,

and the space they take up

must aerate the whole pool.

Making waves from solitude,

and images more blurry than seen through,

and for a second,

the pressure of a pressed flower petal

in a bar of soap

doesn’t make you remember anything

but this bathtub.

Between the candle’s glow

and it’s absent flame,

you can rest.

What if nothing could make you leave this body?

Not depths,

not emotions,

not pain,

not anything?

mmmmmmmmmm,

lips can ponder.

--

--

--

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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