WRITEN BY CLAIRE KIM
we’re lying inside this bathtub, filled with tepid water.
my belly touching the ceiling, and you, plunging and swimming
inside with your caudal fin, reading off from my braille skin,
touching the mad mess of such yellow skin, and my hair, black and awry.
dried and wide, my skin stretches to touch the orange body
of yours. and to you, I’m a giant golden jewelry box, storing memories
we shared, stuck inside an endless salty ocean you’ve lived. the reflection of the faucet I saw on the water, the reflection of your bulging eyes,
my eyes, the jigsaw puzzle-like memories filling up inside my head, flashes of canned moments we shared that I never open. the leaves
from the apple tree, pickled jars we pondered looking, fairy tales and witches: the folk stories we read, seafoam colored frilly tutu I wore when dancing
to the late night 70’s music while you swallowed the smidgen of dirt, sticky toffee. these dress my memories of you. you’ve always coated the memories
I inhabited, I dreamed of. I’ve always swam inside the pool of imagination you invited. And now, together, we dress layers of our memories for one last time
until this water drowns, the water we share drinking inside this bathtub.