perhaps it's the way
the towel hangs
just so
on the stuck-on hooks
how the toothbrushes
in their cups
all point in
different directions
or the mirror of
the medicine cabinet
reflecting the light
in a particular way
does she enjoy residing
in this small cramped space
framed by
square white tiles?
does she love
the intriguing acoustics or
how the cistern gurgles
as it fills after a flush?
i hear her best there
when i sit myself daily
alone with some
anthology of poetry
or brushing my teeth
at the mirror
minty white foam
all over my grin
even standing
under the shower
washing off
the worries of the day
she speaks loudest
from that corner
where a spider has
weaved his web
she presses against me
her lips to my ear
her voice clear over
the splashing of the water
at times she whispers
as i wipe my body dry
crackling like static
with each run of the towel
i close my eyes as
her honeyed voice echoes
in the deepest corners
of my mind
my heart flutters
in Morse its rhythm
spelling out the mysteries
she reveals to me
then as she departs
ever so swiftly
i stumble out gasping, grasping
for my spiral notebook
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem