Poem Of The Week

Pears Translucent Soap

The smell is warm bath, wet clean hair
and just being small, the feel
of rough towel reaching neck to floor
and hem to spare. I wrap

my arms around themselves to hold
that littleness, that brittle
not-quite-memory until
the shower rains it gone,

then lift the glassy soap again:
here’s fingers trapped in amber,
tenderness and slap a hundred
million years away - and here’s

that achy smell once more. I wish -
but no, I will not wish. Instead,
I rinse my face. The water strikes
or strokes my cheek; I can’t decide.