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Soap Opera

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Here, hovering over the sink, hands knobbed like ginger root
The clock became but a metronome, tapping hollow seconds
And my arms followed mindless suit, scrubbing swirls onto the sandcastle of dishes.

And I followed a soap bubble up to the ceiling, watching my movements transposed into
Some pink-lacquered carriage, where I took paper-lace sips of perfume from the bottle
Biting off cushions of mint-flavored marshmallow, cheeks splotched in
Cherry blossoms of rouge and dabbed with powdered sugar
As my fingers contorted themselves into rose-vines, snaking down from the chandelier.

The bubble becomes a spinning wheel, curving out ruches of black taffeta
And I’m swept up into the center of a masquerade ball, by some flannelmouthed seducer of a prince
Pulled close for a tango, feet leaving behind trails of peacock feathers
Proffering a flute of champagne, held out like an altarage before closed eyes.

The glass drops onto the floor
In slices of ice
And I reach for the broom,
Tracing lazy circles into the dust on the floor.





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