ISSUE 9

Christina Brannon 

 

Experience More Than Clean

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experience original sinlessness,

your celebrity crush’s tongue down your throat,

the reality of Santa —

A day no dogs would die is tapping on the door,

The iconoclast’s iconoclast —

I would answer but I am in the shower

speaking to and with the bubbles

who impact the secrets of spotlessness.

Can’t you see heaven out yonder,

just beyond the waterproof radio that came with the bathroom

that came with the house —

What didn’t accompany the house, was this soap,

your last gift to me,

lavender and chamomile and the whisperings of the universe,

the secret to being really really clean.

I never bathe and sit in all I’m leaving behind,

I shower, aș a martyr,

 tiny water bullets make me new,

made in the image of God with room to improve —

less room now, as bubbles foam and fizz filling up the negative space.

Sometimes when I really want something to go my way

I stick my nose so far down

 the spout of the bottle,

I inhale like a new vacuum,

my bathroom reveries.

Thank you, thank you, for the soap that’s so much more —

thank you for the gift of

 Getting Rid Of —

If I could press through the soft eggshell of my skull

to rifle through my brain,

 the loofah of remembrance and all time,

I would wring out the violence, the pristine imagery,

and keep only what I need —

Confetti tassels on the childhood bike,

pastel jelly bean trails of Easter morning,

I could go on and on

with the memories marked safe but

the good dogs and good cats who never die are knocking louder,

the ice cream truck is here, I hear it,

there’s a taffeta tutu hanging in the closet.

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