The Bottom of a Bathtub

                                                                              And killing things is not so hard. It's hurting that's the hardest part.
                                                                                                   And when the wizard gets to me, I'm asking for a smaller heart
                                                                                                                                                              -Trout Heart Replica, A. Palmer 
Sometimes I look for my thirteen year-old self in the bathtub.
I am beating my chest to watch the flesh create ripples
in the water, orange from the drop of cranberry juice and vodka.

You don’t write drunk, you repeat.
You don’t write drunk because he didn’t write drunk.

He didn’t, but your father probably did.
I am sucking a freckle on my shoulder
for the salt. Lightheaded from the heat, and this
will help. I’ve passed out in the tub before,
ceramic bowl floating around the perimeter.

Too much epsom salt, and the waves are
faded white. Remember when the sink was filled
with water too warm, it turned that murky shade
as pots and rubber toys floated in it;
My skin, a slow burn.

One heel wedged in the drain, a faint gurgle
and burp of the sinking waves. Knees are islands;
chest a mountain—inactive volcano.
The other, toes curled around the faucet,
like webbed feet of the frog that clings to rapids,
determined to survive.

The cold water drips from a tiny wart,
down the arch. A freezing water fall. Let the drops
land on a Flintstone foot, and feel the sizzle
as toes submerge.

Too much epsom salt, again, and I am lightweight.
Blanched tiles turn their heads, allow the light
to soak in. Thick hair wet, a heavy rag rocking.
Body bobbing like a breath,
and I swear I see Hamlet’s father’s ghost.

My body, Ophelia in the river
supine under the lilies,
mouth a small, warped o
eyes searching--

​I turn over, an upside down lover,
and for a moment,
I see her. I’m mouthing,
Hello?