this is not a ritual
I usually engage
in—water that steams
to the ceiling, coarse
grains of salt sprinkled in,
followed by a sinking
down, sudden warmth
in deep parts of my bones.
horizontal, I can examine
the small disasters
of my body, wavering
as if through mottled
glass—a thin cut along
the V of my hip, as if
someone tried
to outline it, pink
rope-burn dashed over
my shoulder, a wide bruise
fading to gray behind
my knee—I love them all,
these ghosts of motion.
