This morning I frittered two
hours and forty-seven minutes
in the garden, pulling weeds and
In the afternoon I
exfoliated, using homemade
bath salts stored in
a Vlasic pickle jar.
Spent epithelial cells sloughed
from my body, swirled
down the drain.
The summer I was
thirteen, our next-door neighbor
watched us, hands cupped around
her eyes, over
the redwood fence.
(We pretended we didn’t see her).
By the time school started,
she was dead of a brain tumor.
© Victoria Slotto 2008
Linked to dVerse Poetics where the theme offered by Kelvin S-M is poetry that happens in the bathroom. There should be some fun things happening here to day.
Process Note: There are obscure references to numerology in this. In the Tarot the Death Card is Number 13. All of the numbers in the poem relate to this.