Magic soap
in little boxes
on a rope
wrapped in cellophane,
the crisp-apple feel of a bar of soap.
Sucking on soap
cleanses lies from my tongue
not where I'm supposed to be
___the movies instead of track
Auburn Cave at midnight
___instead of Susan's sleep-over.
A hot and steamy shower with
a washcloth like rusted sandpaper
scrubs the false front
and back street lies
I tell Papa,
where I've been,
nowhere.
I even lie about the box of Tide
I carry in my purse
for emergency cleansing
___self-inflicted oblations
___for late-night transgressions.
When she was still here and
strong enough to wash me
next to godliness,
she'd fill the soap dish twice a week
make me squeeze the soap between
my thighs, the scum remained
like armor plate.
Now the night slips
through my trailer window
the moon cradles an afterthought prayer
I ask God to tell Mama I'm sorry
for that last transgression
___snuck a dime from her purse
___lipstick from the bathroom sink
___dawdled on a street corner, vamped,
___while they napped after dinner
and final soaping
when I was strong enough
to resist her demand
for safety and cleanliness and confession.
And now without her Clorox threat
I stay indoors to fix his supper
and later,
my hands in soapy dishwater,
I absolve myself.
|