genesis 2018 final digital.pdf


Ode to washing my hands
M.E. Carnes

Grabbing ahold of  the metal knob
I pull it towards me,
unleashing a torrent of  water—

and thud against the skin of  my arms
as if  the water can sense 

inside of  me.

I move my hands under the faucet
and allow the water to coat them.
I watch as the steam rises, and
like a burner on an old stove
my hands turn an angry red;
the water searing through my skin 

the pain ignited in my hands 
a distraction from the bruise
that hugs my left eye,

I take hold of  the bar of  soap
twisting it between my hands

I rub my hands against each other,
coating them in the silky white silt—
scrubbing every inch of  skin that stretches

as if  I could wash away
the purple bracelets 
his hands left on me.

Once more I move my hands
under the faucet. The water removing 
the residual bubbles—they swirl around 
the drain and disappear,

and for the moment
so do all of  my worries.

Repeat.