In the Shower


       You are not alone.
       The warm interior rain
       presses against your face,
       neck and shoulders,
       presses into the open palm of your hand.
       You part the stream.
       Your shape is known to these falling,
       winding things.
       From the aquifer of memory,
       my tears rise,
       lose their salt and heat,
       take to clouds,
       curve themselves to the valleys
       and mountains between,
       descend with rivers,
       find lakes, aqueducts,
       spiral the undergirded city,
       tunnel the earth to the walls of your house.
       There, you keep them,
       collected and warm,
       invite them in
       to the gentle, liquid riot
       between curtain and tile
       to touch your face,
       your neck, your shoulders,
       and the waiting cup of your upturned hand.


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