A shoehorn soap peel sits on the tiled ledge to the
porthole in my tub-shower—glass louvers gut-high

in the wall, so the earth may watch me scouring—
with upturned fins like a mid-stroke manta ray I

twirl and scuff to coax absolving lather (because all
mothers say hygiene heals a gape of wounds), and

I enjoy the soothe of vapor while my nerves are
whipped into a froth and the light separates to

striped piano keys, when for the sixth time today
I’m convinced death’s viscous glaze is plastering

me over; perhaps a salving byproduct is the warm
expurgation of my guilt-stuffed lump of belly fat—

which jiggles when I contort to baptize unmapped
appendages—but the suds usually make me dry-itch.