Lava Scoured

I’m trying to rub the city off my heels.

The stone is light as a handful of dried bone,

a gray, porous tongue licking the rough skin

until the pink underneath begins to sting.

It slipped from my soapy palm just now

and cracked against the side of the tub.

A dull, heavy thud that sounded like

a tooth snapping off in a dark room.

It sits on the porcelain ledge, leaking silt.

A piece of a mountain, or a cooled-down hell,

meant to make me soft enough for someone

to touch me without catching on the sheets.

But the grit stays behind in the water,

swirling around the drain like a dirty secret.