Keep the Static

The sink is full of soapy water and the roar

of the faucet hitting a stainless steel pot.

It’s too loud to think, but I’m scrubbing anyway

because the steam is a wall I can hide behind.

Then a hand lands on my shoulder blade,

warm and heavy through the thin cotton of my shirt.

You’re just saying you’re headed to bed,

but the heat of your palm feels like a red welt

under the skin.

I don’t move. I don’t lean back.

I just watch the suds go gray in the drain

and wait for the air to be my own again.

Every nerve is a live wire,

hissing at the intrusion of a kindness.