in two as it drinks the warm water and let the
soap sing before it greets your day-worn face.
Scrub this face and follow its broad contours
along the ways of forehead, nose, and cheeks,
as if this land were foreign and not your own.
Keeping it moving until you can drop the
cloth and feel her ghostly and future fingers
tracing your face at the end of the evening.
Your appearance is not your own to behold,
but hers to enjoy; and her eyes are so unlike
the tired and flat ones found in your mirror.
Walking in the dark hall toward bed, her hands
still run along your face like waves crashing
against the shore of you, felt long after leaving
the beach at which you both have yet to be.
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