bathtub sonnet

still tonight she writes with words in water
a curl of blood as lonely as a soliloquy; even
shadow bends away from her light that is more
like a flicker of fiber optics rather than some
constant glow–she lifts lidless eyes to the moon
and asks for guidance but tonight the sky is full
of faraway answers that stray into questions dark
as eyelashes and full as the bathtub she stands
in, and each time she bends to scrub her skin
the water sinks into the drain and back again
where the starkness of a candle flame betrays
her in its hurricane lamp–she is left between
a memory and a moment, an evaporating stare,
a graceless hand and a fistful of air.

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