Post #300 and a poem…

I feel strangely un-talkative lately. Quiet. A throwback to the years I spent buried in books, perhaps; while I still love a good story I’m hardly able to read the way I used to.

Anyway, I felt like this was kind of momentous, at least for me…to have written 300 posts in the last two years, many of them much more exciting that this one. But I’m tired, and I’ve finished my finals until the next semester, and I am just tired (I think) [e.e. cummings reference, anyone?]

So, for now, please allow me to say a very simple thank you for reading this. To all the friends and family I know personally, and everyone who knows my life and my writing virtually. I truly appreciate that you’ve stuck through my drafts upon drafts of  my poems and stories, poems by writers I love, adventures abroad, and more.

Here’s one more poem of mine:

How to Get Clean

Scrub grout from green and cream tiles along the tub’s rim;
seal the new, clean cracks with caulk. Scrub the rings left
by his forgotten bottles of shampoo and conditioner, still smelling faintly
of cinnamon musk. He left. Take the bottles and throw
them away. Toss blue powdered cleaner in the toilet bowl, wait
two minutes, scrub. Discard the single-bladed navy razors
you certainly won’t be using. Scrub the mirror
above the sink, white streaks of toothpaste and water. You always hated
when his spit flecked the glass. Scrub hands with pomegranate soap suds;
ignore the cracked red hatch-marks outlining each knuckle.
Do not look at the saucer in which your gold bands used to rest, sometimes –
do not even think about how he’d sometimes leave his there
after a shower, say he forgot. Pitch the saucer into the trash.

Scrub lines of mascara off ruddy skin. Scrub what’s left,
foundation and blush, from jaw lines and forehead.

Scrub even the dowel rods – don’t think about the monogrammed towels
that used to hang there – and wipe them dry. Drape with new, striped linens.

Turn the knob in the shower all the way to the right and undress
while steam reeking of cleaner rises up from the tile.
Stand in the spray, soak your head. Scrub scarlet fingers into your scalp.

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