Pull the cord.
Click click.
Plunge into night.

Next-door’s light is oil on a puddle
through the dappled window -
bubbles on brown tiles.

Folded towels on toilet lid,
clothes crumpled on lino.
Skin pricked in frozen air.

Knotted hair falls,
shoulders lower into the tank,
steam rising from cold tin.

A baptism - of sorts.
Astreamofbreath.
Open mouth, choked,

soaked in this womb,
this tiny ocean.
Lungs searing,

eyes stinging,
light specks dart.
Water’s skin unbroken.