ite

Found it cleaning the tub.

Pumice. Gray, half gone,

lighter than it should be.

Full of holes. The guest moved on.

I picked it up. It crumbled —

dust on wet skin.

Grit from something that began

as fire and spent its life wearing thin.

My mother had one by the sink.

Summers. My feet on the ledge.

She'd press it to my heels in circles,

rough hands gone careful at the edge

of the callus. Tap running.

The stone smaller every time.

She never named what she was doing.

I never said the line

I should have — that her hands

were hard all week and soft for this.

That I could feel the difference.

The powder ran. The drain didn't miss

a thing. I stood in the bathroom,

someone else's shampoo.

Lava cools to rock. Rock wears to dust.

I keep the pressure. I lost the who.