Bodies of the dead float along a stream in my mind.
A leaf follows their path in tangible time.
Water that moves is clean, while stationary water is often dank, and stale.
It’s ironic that we take baths to clean, and scorn the pilgrims
from that video in History class for bathing in a river.
Of course, there are showers –
And then there are showers.
I’d rather let the tiny, synthetic droplets of the
Moen showerhead prick my skin
Than let my soul’s rain, the kind behind your eyes, go free.
It can’t rain.  I want it to be raining now
So I can draw out the robot inside of me.
No longer will my parents compare my exterior to a callous rock
Because they’ll learn that rocks can hold water, too.