i haven't washed myself
in days

there's no point
because

it can't be washed away
anyway.

I washed her
from my pillow-slips.

In a white plastic bucket
I soaked away her body's breath,
and with bleach removed
the evidence she had  left.

We snatched the time
to make our marks
with sweat and
firm commitments.

The stains on stolen sheets
proved easier to erase
than those she ground into
the fabric of my room,

I watched as
traces of our time
together
turned the water dark.

Bent over the stream
of laundrywomen drench
words that flitter to and fro,
rinsing and revising spoken prose
across whispered conversations

Fading away into the piercing gaze
of an endless summer’s haze
the laundrywomen have mastered
the art of washing the soul with only water
and well-meant poems as soap
as if it were the cloth in their hands

Ah!  Another hero
Washed with bleach
Like the Son,
Who is only holy
When rinsed of his
Melanin.  

I wear a white coat
That browns in sunlight -
It appears the moon and I
Will be good friends.

How deep must I scrub
To rid my pores of
The southeast Asian sun;
To wash my hair of Pacific salt?
(Even my mother painted herself
With a European brush).  

How can I know myself
When denied the magma
In my blood?  

It's of no fault of mine
That I've been stripped
Down to resemble a
Colonial caricature -

I've been taught
The victories
And learned
Medals are smelt
In white gold,
But mostly
I've been told
That mixtures separate
And I am mostly
Creme with a dash of coffee.  

A shame!  
Us beige babies must be
Assigned colors
As if palettes were for paintings
Not people -

My family tree has
Cane fields and apple orchards,
So don't act like
You're surprised
When I mention
White isn't the only
Color of my skin.

Beams of light explode over the soft sand,
i can feel the warmth on my face as i sit on the beach,
sinking softly into natures warm bed.
The light seems to turn everything it touches
into a glowing ball of light,
as if god himself is smiling down at the dawn of a new day.
The beach is deserted apart from a few seagulls
that seem to share this enlightened appreciation.
I grab my board and walk slowly towards the sand,
my feet sinking into the grains,
feeling the consistency change as the water laps at my ankles.
My wetsuit keeps me surprisingly warm
as the cold water rises slowly, and i close my eyes,
holding my board under one arm.
I smell the salt, the fresh air, this is what beauty is.
I wander in, losing myself in this new environment.
I duck quickly underwater wetting my hair and face,
floating weightlessly in the water for a second,
before rising, feeling fresh as i grab my floating board and straddle it.
Leaning forward, i can seeing fish scatter
as the first wave washes over me
like a tilde wave of emotions and stress,
i wipe the slate clean,
i am the tabula rasa and this is a new day.

Today tastes like
Satisfied saturday lie ins
and accompanied sleepy yawns
Tea in bed
toast crumbs

Today tastes like
Washing pegs I hold in my mouth
while ******* things
out on the line

Today tastes like
Saturday sweetie day
peanut m n m's
and other sugary
treats hooray!

Today tastes like a trip to the zoo
animal antics
fruit bats
meerkats
and tamarin tantrics

Today tastes like
My son's hearty hugs
he's been away all week
with the scouts
a hearty dinner
whilst he recounts
his trip's losers and winners

Today tastes like
brightly coloured family
television shows
of sofa time and
cheesey toes
(before i put the boys
in the bath)

Today tastes like
relaxation
tea and more tea
Maybe I'll allow
myself a
cheeky glass of wine
to further relax
and unwind!

One night in the middle of summer,
I was given my favorite dream.
And in it, I was her;
the girl you'd think about when you sing.
I woke up, glazed in melancholy-
in sparkle juice sheen.
And I touched your bracelet to my lip,
the one I stole right before we kissed,
and when our mouths swished
dreamy washing machine.
Cleaned our inner depths of psyche,
anointed with love poison-
unable keep the thoughts of longing, dry,
strong desires are the knife
that cuts the girl from your cloth
the one you think about when you sing,
the one I think you like.
So shredded and clean I bound my lips to you,
I didn't stop until dreams came to life.

If it were a shirt or underwear,
I could have thrown it into that corner
This, now, is body
It is not enough to wash it the ordinary way in the bathroom
Have to give it to the sea or the river
Like giving the very soiled clothes to the washerman
Perhaps it will give it back.