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
