Soapy hands can hold
a bubble, don't worry.
Fairy liquid seeping, slug-
ish to your glands, your
hair is greasy, knotted out
in strands, strung back
again. There's a tension
in the mention of your
name. Here, propulsion
and the architecture, the
strain of a sphere on lino
that bursts, sticks with
a prick to quick-lime,
detergent, soup, soap-
suds resurgent, froth
around sink mouth, gravy
slime, conjure you, kitchen
ghost. Your life grows
with time, between alkaline,
acid, marjoram and thyme,
the congeal of the last meal,
and the next, vexed in the
stink between the bubbles
of the saucepan and the sink.
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