Ablutions

nostalgic piety and I break with fruit
ablution clarity, repeatedly and increasingly and defeatedly
water is drawn over post truth calluses, slathered:
Over this body in beauty – that’s all that matters, the sublime – dancing – yes I’m not practicing – any day now my son you will return.
I (hypocrite) stand gleaming by the kitchen sink, turning to look at her unrotten hope, fearing its expiration when she hands me fruit