White Porcelain Tub Poem by Tara Teeling

With the bathwater drawn,
and the steam thick as cottoned breath,
I submerge and let myself stew.
I am sitting in the grit
of a day lost to futile pondering
and an upset stomach.
I am sitting in the dead cells of a beautiful girl
who has peeled off and floats aimlessly.
I am steeping in the tea that is me.


I see the hair on my left thigh
that I missed with the pink razor
which is blemished with rust spots.
I can nearly feel the rising sting
of grazed skin and angry blood
as I dismiss the notion of perfecting the shave.
No one will see the peach-skin floss,
nor will any hand stroke the skin.
By leaving the seaweed filaments to sway with the currents
I remind myself that I’m not someone who needs
to pay attention to detail.
I can get away with errant hairs.
I can get away with holey underwear.


I think about lighting the candles to my right,
then go back to staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling.
Candlelight when naked
is practiced by women who have purply-blue auras;
the taut-bodied, cat-eyed sirens who bathe in their own milk.
They lap up wine from the crystal stemware
that waits on the tubside tiles,
but I’ve no wine to drink.
The water is tepid, the steam is gone,
and I don’t have the fire to spark the wick.


My whine is underwater.


I hold my Plath up high
so as not to wrinkle her corners.
She has already suffered enough.
I try to read her words and let them wash over me,
but I’m distracted
by the ploink, ploink, ploink
of the dripping open-mouthed faucet;
like pebbles dropped into a still water stream.
I look down to see what sort of deterioration has begun
on the lily white palace that is me,
taking in a breath with one eye closed.
The murky soap waters have mercifully obscured the foundation,
and I exhale in mixed relief.


I want to think that I’m feeling better.
I am validating hydrotherapy and
the benefits of breathing vanilla and mint.
The exaggerated thumps and bumps of my body on porcelain
make me more aware of my ability to think.
I’ve stopped treading water long enough
to sit in it and simmer.
It’s just me and the unlit candles.


I’m unable to rest easy.
The words before me seem like cryptic code,
and the weight of the paper is too much for my withered arms.
I think about the time, how much I’ve lost in here.
Faces of slighted lovers or long dead kin
rise from the mist to haunt me.
All my wrongs breathe better
when immersed in perfumed water.
I begin to wonder if it’s unwise to sit in my own filth,
seethe in my soup.


The cool wakes me up as I search for a towel.
My skin is blotched
with raspberry and cream heat bruises
which will swiftly fade.
I am breathing deep and full,
feeling like I’ve freed myself from a watery grave.
I pat my face dry,
followed by my arms and downy legs.


I’m awake and alive.
The air seems cleaner.
As I slip on my red robe,
the one with frays and pilling pockets,
I marvel at the change in me.
I feel more aware of what I’m lacking, yet,
am more open to accepting it.
I watch myself go down the drain
and feel too weak and drunk to care.
The bath has worked a magic that even I don’t understand.


I fall asleep wishing I understood the luxury.