The Damp Harvest

The shower curtain is heavy with it now.

A slick, pinkish film where the water pools

in the folds of the plastic I bought for five bucks.

I touch the edge and my skin crawls,

but I don't reach for the bleach.

In the grout, the black spots are colonizing,

spreading out like the lights of a city

seen from a plane I’ll never afford to board.

It’s a slow-motion map of a place that thrives

on the things I’m too tired to clean.