WATER TO RINSE

From the tub surface, water streams down in rivulets.

Drops collide, form together and separate.

They fall across my extended legs; a canvas of skin to cover.

Heat rises in my knee caps and to my toes.

The water is an unknown painter and draws with the color of red.

But I am blanketed by the degree.

Such a small frame I am I notice.

Remembering at five with a sponge bath and a rubber ducky.

Then, I sweep my soapy hand across my breast.

I am a woman, creating bubbles on my epidermal layered heart.

Counting the years the last time someone took their time to make love to me...

And the genuine moment I let them.

So petite I sit as the shower head towers above me.

I look up, closing my eyes to let the steamy water hit my face.

I see Cocoa Beach, wild waves and the thunderous blow that pushes me back to the shore.

Opening my eyes mid-stream as hydrogen and oxygen sting across my pupils,

Enjoying the sensation like a kid banishing goggles to explore the true nature of the pool.

A rub down across my shoulders ensues by the pelting rain that I not only sense inside this bath,

but hear also outside my apartment window.

In a half hour, I've been engulfed in a heated womb.

Taking me to the lake day. I was in a cocoon, sleeping in a canoe under the hot Florida sun.

I am showered. I am clean, but I sit still and listen.

Like a school fish frenzy, the water splashes up, down, across, all around.

I breathe in the calm and imagine the aroma of those rose petals,

placed years ago in another tub to wash away tears of heartbreak.

Now I've got myself a new tub with a glorious waterfall,

but no fall I will take as I am safe.

So when I rose, turned off the water and stood naked,

I felt rinsed and fully understood the beating of my own heart.

By Johanna Vanderspool

February 15, 2011