The hot water was out
with the dark of a new
moon when you dreamed
of drawing a hot
bath; I got pots going
on all burners, watched
broths fill with fish
eyes; I carried each
boiling sacrament
to you with dish rags
swaddled around
the handles, careful
not to scald
a wrist, tops
of my feet, or trip
on the stairs,
but composed,
also, hurrying
slowly as an acolyte
at altar; I poured in
one and then another,
the steam rose
blooming condensation
on my lenses; you stood
on your clothes — they
looked conquered
as a molted skin,
black crescent
under your feet; Our Lady
of flowers pressed
on the apron of a beggar;
downstairs, I
didn't hear you
enter the kitchen
over the seething
chorus of captive
waters warming
over fire, but I felt
you spreading
your towel like wings
around me, you put
your ear to mine
to hear
a sea; we know
we're more
water than not
Tim Taranto is a writer, visual artist, and poet from New York. His work has been featured in Buzzfeed, FSG’s Works in Progress, Harper’s, The Iowa Review, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Paris Review Daily, The Rumpus, and The Saint Ann’s Review. His memoir Ars Botanica, is forthcoming from Curbside Splendor Publishing in the summer of 2017. Tim is a graduate of Cornell University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.
Photo by Mizmareck
