by Olivia Snider
Bathing in the tepid
water of your own filth
at once purifying and re-
condemning your body.
The empty goblet slips
from your twitching fingers,
shimmers up at you from its
many faces on the tile floor.
Breath scented with the last
sip of an age 12 bottle,
your last remnant of Ireland and when
you thought you’d found home.
Trickles meandering down the hairs on
your naked arms, shoulders, breasts,
rippling over stretch marks and skin straining
over a swollen belly.
Your innards issue a warning; a clear
blast of indignation. You suppress the
yearning in your gut in exchange
for a breath beneath the surface.
Two, three, four breaths and you’re twitching
fingers are thrashing, arms
flailing like rubber eels and then
the yearning is gone.