Clean

by Deborah Miranda

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Alone in the shower this morning,
I remember the white cloth
on my breast, the vivid cinnamon of your hand
slowly stroking, cupping.
I remember the shame in my body,
creases of childbearing on my
belly and thighs, shadows of abuse against
my throat. I remember thinking my scars
were something to hide. I remember knowing
all this, still asking for your touch
everywhere.

You knelt to soap my calves
and feet, light musician's fingers following the lines
of my spine, shoulders. You rose
before me, water streaming over
our smooth bodies.
I took the cloth from your hand
and bathed you, sweetheart,
in beauty.

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From The Zen of La Llorona, Salt Publishing, 2005.
© 2005 Deborah Miranda

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