The Song of Water and Lightwashed away from the sea
of peace and comfort
forced into a black hole of despair
gazed upon by the stars
judged by mountains high above
clouds be wisped away
rivers be silenced by drought
challenged by eternal nightfall
resting upon a half moon
for there is no wind to move them
not even the breath of your own god could make them move again
for there is no symbol
there is no word of power
to awaken again
the waters and light that once sung in this world.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o