Bathroom

 

Go there in a hurry, red coming out, a burn a blister, an event breaking the surface of skin, to stop the hurry, the tearing hurry of pink squares and protective film, to hold the fear in place, a few seconds of stop, going on non-stop, that was a burst of fear fear no more. Or worse, go there for the jar of rattling antidotes, to fend off the gush of nausea, the swell of headache, the flesh prompts for disgust, something unpronounceable and no time to say, there to vomit the facts, meet the shivering need for water, or whatever it takes, held tight alone by awareness of certain walls. More normally, invariably virtually, is entry for the comb that streams the comedy file of fine lines in curves and waves, curls and dreams as preparation for out again, out into the commentary of weather, the mirth of your head tingling appreciation whatever anyone says of the current style, hilarious that human weather of commentary, the comedy stand-up of your very self brushing at the mirror, all concentration on your part, and the comb. Likewise, the satisfactions of the toothbrush. And there’s soap, milky or translucent, oaten or jasmine, readying you in fresh scent for flesh to embrace its future that today may be simply the weather again, self-respect enough, or who knows but suddenly and particularly the pleasures of love named, enough for encounter, enough to feel pretty okay really, thanks. Thence beneath the human-wrought cloud perforations of the showerhead, such wonder washing your face, eyes closed, your limbs their litheness and limits, every part of you refreshed under the solid sprinkle, the one genuine trickle-down effect, as if just for a brief while this warm heaven went on forever. Go there to manage the inexplicable fact of existing, again, like the last time was again, where expectations are you will be cleaned and tidied and scented and brushed and cured and dressed and prettified and from in there will summon some little fresh courage for out there, from somewhere. Contemplative it is in there, where you attend to your needs, that place of acoustic perfection bel canto excess in the shower recess, a well-lit cleanly place that rarely knows anger, unless another raps demand at the door, interrupts peace with their own special hurry, their hedge-backwards uncombed hair, spoiling your care. Only, on occasion, thinking about such elegies in elegy mood, do you pick at the scab of mortality, reach frustrated for the crumpling blister pack, consider a minute the sorrow of the body, your wondrous and yet mysterious friend, who is everyone’s sorrow timing down to switch out the light and go.