irony

by india southgate.

 
It comes to me when I am doing the ironing,
The creased fabric.
The bracing heat.
The fear.
Or when I am in the shower,
Watching beadlets race on the glass,
With the towels making the still dew look like eyes.
And while my eyes are closed,
They watch me get soap in mine.
The sting,
Makes me feel like you are here with me,
Watching me.
It comes to me again when I am trying to get clean,
In a shower that isn't my own,
With a tiny shower gel I carry as a precaution,
For situations other than this,
Outsized in my hand,
Like some Alice in wonderland shit.
A bead of sweat.
I wonder at what point will I feel small again.

[unpublished]

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