(Secret Message in subject lines) Tom

[stephywang]

In the bathroom,
everything in its place;
the towel draped like a limp
ballerina on the bar,
its folds becoming a subject of art.
Bowls half filled with
food and soapy water are placed
variously
on the tiled floor.
We’ll never get out the
dried spaghetti sauce
that fell between the cracks.
The forks,
The spoons,
Mismatched chopsticks,
the wooden kinds that don’t slip
when you try to hold a dumpling in place
(of course, you always stab them anyways).
My hair,
Your hair,
mixed and stuck to the shower wall.
The vial of my tears hanging by a cord
on the door knob;
your pewter cross and chain
tangled with the string wound around a
tiny bottle of your black blood:
all clank against each other
when we open and close the door.
Everything,
in its place.