Poetry

Going Up There

He was working toward a Mars colony future, said it was like painting the Sistine Chapel. I said but limited resources, and he said it doesn’t matter because always. I said but the natural world, and he said human life. I said meaning and metaphor. He said far, far into the future. I said up there I wouldn’t want to live. I said what about going underground, and he said internet, then tyranny. I said purpose and then I said because always, and he said escape. Then we stopped talking but continued walking up the dirt path switchback through naked burn victim trees and into the valley and the campground that you could barely tell was a campground but for the piles of rocks and the grass that was starting to come back. We stood and looked, the wind in our faces directing us back toward the ocean.

Take a bath

but don’t use bubbles. Don’t think about the people who may have been in your tub before you. The water should be clear. Put your head underwater to hear the echo of moving furniture in the apartment below. Forget the time he washed your hair, or used your deodorant. Make it hot enough to turn your skin red, at least in blotches, at least on your chest. Don’t think about using anyone else’s toothbrush. Scrape off the dead skin with your fingernails. Concentrate on the neck and shoulders. Forget about certain body parts, like lips and thighs. Wipe any buildup on the side of the tub. Plan on cleaning it later. Get to the next layer. Don’t think about the dents in your pillow. Pick dead skin off your feet. Using a fingernail, remove any dirt from under your toe nails. Especially the big toe. Let the water drain slowly. Rinse, repeat.