Here is a beautiful poem I thought id share, titled Washing My Hair. I enjoy this poem; it’s sultry, playful and a little gothic. It invokes the transcending nature of water and reveals the existential thoughts one may have while completely vulnerable.
Washing My Hair
Contending against a restless
shower-head,
I
lather my own.
The hot tap, without a mind, decides
to
scald me;
The cold, without a will, would
rather
freeze
me.
Turning them to suit me is an act of
flesh
I
know as mine.
Here I am: scalp, neck, back,
breasts,
armpits,
spine,
Parts I've long been part of, never
treasured
much,
Since I absorb them not by touch,
more
because of
touch.
It's my mind, with its hoard of
horribles,
that's
me.
Or is it really? I fantasise it
bodiless,
set
free:
No bones, no skin, no hair, no nerves,
just
memory,
Untouchable, unwashable, and not, I
guess,
my
own.
