Are we building a temple, you and I?
As we lie like broken lambs,
Or cracked pieces of the host, floating,
At the edges of the chalice:
soggy with wine.
The electric light casts an unpleasant sheen
On the bathwater, illuminating the gritty evidence:
small brown curls,
And dust on the rim. We pull
The shower curtain across,
Making shadows to hide in,
So if I close my eyes I might believe
We were in other people’s lives.
The tangle of my hair seeps around you,
The pillowy flesh of your crotch drifting
Near my ears. The water is too hot
And my legs extend above the tap,
As if hung on a hook,
the bubbles drying out to white residue
All sensitivity slowly recedes.
The burning toes cool as the fleeing blood
Drains away, and my fingers, like a statues,
drip water from their tips.
There is a moment when the bulbous tug
Of the teardrop quivers against inevitability,
And I can see world through its unique
Looking-glass; the teal of the curtain, the yellowing
The taps are reflected in them,
Silver and burning against me
whilst we lie,
Naked, and unafraid before
the blanch of steam and raw element.
Your skin seems to float around me like
Fat on oil, loose and lifeless.
In this stewed pot of hair and bones,
I wonder where you are,
What part of you I might keep,
Or find, if I boiled us away
The water cools but I have
Lost the feeling
in my feet, and cannot