A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein
Something soft, perhaps indelible.
Make sure the bathtub water is cold to the touch.,
but not unbearable–lean into your body–
find your quiet space.
But first, the door must be locked.
No one can disturb you.
The hangers, elongated, stretch to the thighs,
its metal hard, yur skin pliant,
a mixing of fear and a mixing of anxiety.
this is how some of the things you care about
become things you can no longer bear,
how everything can change in a second
and fever on forever.
If the metal does not find an entrance,
do not force it.
When you bend to far towards your knees,
when you lose touch with yourself,
if the metal scrapes into blood,
if a cloud becomes solid and a fog sweat,
listen carefully to your eyes.
Tears are often lifesavers.
Sobs are often the only way to get out of the water.
Do not ever allow yourself to drown.
Then
rest within melody, thick breath, a shadow of whisper–
I performed this dance once, and succeeded.
A best friend, no.
Before you leave this evening,
be aware–and she finally paused–
every dance you will do from then on will be less fragile.
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