Soap

I can’t breathe. If I were honest

I’d admit to the under-my-skin damp

called loneliness, called fear.

If courageous, I’d swallow hard

and say to fear, “Come sit right down—

be fear at the head of the table.”

And serve fine wine, cheese and bread,

tomatoes so dead ripe their warm

earthy scent fills the air the way

honeysuckle suckles the night.

I’d confess to the itch of expectation,

the itch of attachment; I’d display

the bruises on my arms—proof

of my struggles. As if fear, in his crisp

white shirt and black Tevas,

could be impressed by fearlessness,

perseverance, compassion, or skill.

Fear knows all about evasion.

So I confess it. I say it aloud:

I’m afraid.

Without further word,

looking fear straight in the eye,

I begin to take off my clothes.

I know, I know, it surprises me, too.

But a stir of wind blows through

the open windows,

and I hear the tree frogs loudly

tweeting their coded messages for sex.

I begin to breathe.

Fear, purely sensed, takes a mere

ninety seconds to crest

and fall away (this is a fact)—

lingering only when one feeds it

the custard of stories and lies.

Oh, how fear then flexes his muscles!

But say we

lean into each other,

dear fear. Let’s be groundless,

curious lovers. Let’s be Quakers

and clouds. Let’s stay present

to the steamy pour of the shower,

to the curve of the soap on skin.

Let’s melt into this feeling—fear

in my knees, in my spine. Fear

between my breasts. Fear nesting

in my armpits, fear slippery on the soles

of my feet. Dear fear, let’s give

a good soaping to your cock and to my

well you get the idea. We’re soaping

a doorway through uncertainty

to freedom. As we soap, behind us

vast space and light open up.

There, there, my darling. Let me

take care of you. More

sandalwood scent? A good hard

rub to the scalp? Relax. We’ll rinse

and watch the suds bubble down the drain.

You can trust me. You can trust me. Just let go.