Wish I Was the Tub

If I wrote a memoir, that would be the title:wish I was the tub, and not the body.

Wish I was the container so easily filledand emptied. A place of worship

to ease sufferings the body holdstight in nerve fibers transmitting

light from sensations to thoughts,the curves that hold identity.

The tub I want to be is porcelainand pink like a fifties Caddy

ready to be taken for a ride. It beckonslike a fever dream outside the tides

of predestined handfuls of lavenderor Epsom salts. It assaults the senses

but it can take it. Its hard body gesturesin stillness. It is held in place by a form

intended to cradle. Intended to providereprieve. A tub sits like an offering.

If I wrote a memoir, I’d also write aboutpenises, beautiful church bells ringing

out my insides for cash and residualentertainment. What it is to be raped

more than once. Gang raped—but not likewe see on TV screens where bandanas

slick back hair and they wear wife-beaters,plaid shirts, stares that drop you to dust.

I’m talking about TV’s neighborly types.White men in backyards eating birthday cake.

Maybe I should say I was group raped.Just for clarity’s sake.

If I wrote a memoir, I’d talk aboutfalling down a ladder,

hugging a toilet like a goddess with a gunpressed against my temple,

intentionally getting lostas a cardiac condition,

heart of soap and hot water—the only prayer to empty me.