SHAMPOO

This shampoo reminds me of you,
the black and white bathroom
I always wanted
and I got it
but it didn’t suit;
I shared it with seven Irish men,
one black,
and one threatening terrorist attacks.

This shampoo reminds me of that place,
the baby oil carpets,
the snot walls.

This shampoo reminds me of you;
the toothpaste does too.
My Grandma bought it for me,
Because she likes to buy me things
like that.
She gave me an extra tube of hers,
for sensitive teeth,
the sensitive teeth of poverty.

But my Irish men
squeezed it all out, like oil from a pour
I wonder if they wondered at all…
I wonder if they wonder of me anymore.

I showered there,
every day afraid.
Other girls showered there, too, I thought.
If we can do what they can do.
I wonder if you can see me through
this little window,
my soft white skin
like a light bulb against the black curtain.
The black bathroom air
was always wet with washing.

I got books on ethics,
lying,
and medicine –
enough questions
and moral dilemmas
to drive any man insane
I felt I was doing the same
on the baby oil carpet.

Lips silenced by silver duct tape,
sustained by Krispy Kreme donuts
and bottled water.
His room smells like
masturbation and dust and broken TVs
that made me not want to eat for days.

Finally, they drag him out screaming,
swearing he will kill us all.




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