Becoming home - 21 march 2020

I’m stitching a foam dress, imagine

it has bright purple ruffles made with green soap

the boredom of washing my body everyday, almost,

is not new, in my late twenties I asked friends

to join and brush our teeth together

with few I dared more, I dreaded the white room,

cleaning routines, I dreaded my soft, tight skin

I dreaded the time that got lost in it: sit tight,

lateral left, lateral right, thoroughly, then floss

then rinse, then the face, apply cream softly

never could I imagine it felt like the rain,

ointment on the right thigh, left cheek

use other nourishments for earlobes,

clean those wrinkles, open the pores,

close the various tubes, the shampoo should flow

from the scalp to the tips of your hair, maneuver

with care; I did it all with rage, praying for an end:

wash your small toe, dry your hair with your head

down, the movement of blood through the skin will

keep at bay the frazzle of being, my friends

would find it tedious and try to leave but I’d wave

from the steamy water, ‘wait please’, I’d beseech

‘just one more leg, or the hairs in-between’,

and if they left, I’d imagine new forms of light

in things: a yellow towel drying my hair becomes

a wreath of bustling bees giving life, freckled nipples

resurrect as freebie eyes upon my chest;

I would imagine the shadow of my toothbrush

working hard, stroking a 4x4 action painting

of the absurd battle of soap with knights camouflaging

in scented corners amid short hairs; I imagined

the body milk speaking the word of skin; such

I’m performing years of preening, imagining 

Balfron tower, London. December 2019. Source: Olimpia Mosteanu