POLAROID EPITAPHS: The Bather


The Bather…

Hot water turns cold so fast,
you’d hardly know that I was
headed down the drain.

I always imagined that a tornado
would be a poetic way to die.
…rip my body into the wind with
the most brutal force-vacuum,
sucking my breasts flat
and lungs full of internal gasping
all with the thunder of one-thousand
freight trains over
the prairie.

The tornado passed.

Instead,
I simply pruned
slowly-elastic in a
cast iron
tub.

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