WASHING THE DISHES Turn the water on too hot. Squeeze in too much soap. Pretend you are drowning. Cloak your wounds in the yellow decay. Fill the sink with plates and knives. Scrub it all away until the past is so sparkling clean your friends smile and eat off it. Not a white tooth in the house when the sun rises on this hung-over fortress of youth, the lazy yellow fire assaulting sweaty lines on foreheads, still almost asleep. These self portraits you plunge beneath sunken history shrivel until they don’t look like you, here with the plates, removing what is left when a meal is done. The future will take shape when the residue is gone. The morning will come to you: esophagus purging the acrid result of honey down a stale ceramic bowl, hiding your face, sick with shame at what your obsession meant, what they knew but couldn’t see. But at this moment you’re here, parting what’s cut from the blade, believing in hidden knives below the dirty water of this stainless sink. You know they can cut you. You believe even you can be washed clean. Continue reading
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