I made spaghetti for supper.
A bad day, you said. You needed a soak.
Your last words
as you breezed past me.
Moments later the bathtub faucet came on
an army of water pouring out
marching through your windpipe
and seizing your soul.
With a shaky hand, I twisted the doorknob.
You, in your work suit
overturned in the overflowing mess,
and I dropped to my knees
and shrieked like a dying hawk.
A week after, I stand to face the bathroom mirror,
glaringly memorizing my pale complexion.
Flicking away the tears
Rolling
down my raw red cheeks.
I touch the limp strands of hair
clinging to my face like refrigerator magnets.
Vodka oozing from my skin,
the soles of my feet black as the coffin they buried you in.
With a jagged fingernail, I scrape
the dirt from my face leaving a trail of pink skin beneath the scum.
I want to scour the dead cell layers,
the grease, the grime.
But you died in that white coffin.
I walk around to the backyard and twist the hose faucet
until icy water spews from the metal mouth
down my frail legs and back.
Goosebumps rise over my body and I gasp
from the shock of cold, the icy hands,
stinging my back
taking my breath away.
Annie holds a Bachelors degree in Creative Writing with a specialization in Poetry from Ohio University.
