Sara Sage
Shower/Sacred Space
a. the shower is the purest place
that you conceptualize as a
young child/ you bathe with
a cousin, lather each others’
hair with walmart soap, smear
shaving cream into letters
across the walls, force special
bath-only barbies to play
scuba divers/ your grandfather
considerately pats you down
with costco towels
b. you nearly shatter your left
arm at ten / the doctors surround
your meager bones to your bicep
and your mother must shower you
every other day / the sheer shame
of her gracing your breast buds
I’m trying to be quick / you know
c. a fistful of your hair, your red
cheeks flat against the porcelain
an essential virgin still/ a shadow:
shh, stop whining. it’s fine.
d. during your trauma week, your
wife takes all the showers with
you/ she quietly washes the
teal dye from your hair/ she
speaks softly I know, we’re
almost done/ she tries her best
to reclaim your sacred hollow