The Water (2019) by Pamela Crowe

The water

I bathe.
The water holds me like my mother can’t.
Too busy answering demands and ducking shouts.

It stays,
and cradles me like my mother can’t,
laps forward, foams, taunts.

Shall I
sink a little lower now.
Go under and be fully loved?

The scum
wanders meaninglessly over
and I smack a cloud into the air.
It rests above the taps, 30cm or so,
a little cloud. Oh fucking joy, my cloud, it’s hope again.


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