By Molly Smith
It’s these small graces – the way your hair
clings to your forehead and back like flypaper,
these perfumed ringlets of steam that redeem
the dirt between us and our fingers.
There’s a quiet defiance in holding yourself up
even when your spine feels like a liquid.
Just like the tongues of water wrapped around
your hands that ache from holding on too tight.
Don’t think about your water bill as you arrange
your shampoo bottles a fourth time.
I wonder if we invented showers to mimic rainfall,
this daily baptism.
Molly Smith is currently a graduate student at Middle Tennessee State University for English. She received her BA in English and Creative and Imaginative Writing at Cumberland University. She has previous publications in Cathexis Northwest Press, Wild Roof Journal, Radix Magazine, and Novus Literary Arts Journal.
