by Samantha Thornhill
Maddening, the faucet’s whine, but here’s the soap.
Hold its blackness close to your skin like a welt
or watch it slowly die in your hands like hope
in its dimmest hour. As with love, careful not to grope
too hard or it will escape like something you pelt.
Maddening the faucet’s whine, but hold the soap.
It will never belong to you, only to its death. Like a trope,
It’s blackness will never be yours, so watch it melt
and dye your hands, slowly wrinkling. Hope
it never washes away like a kiss from the Pope
himself to a boy who served his faith and knelt,
gladdened by the faucet’s whine. And the soap,
watch as it tries to outlast itself like a man on a rope.
Smear the song of its vanishing on the walls, gather its silt.
Watch it split and die across your hands like hope
against your wet prunes for fingers. Watch it cope
within the halves of its ruination. Why weep now? You felt
it vanishing under the faucet’s whine, but you held the soap
and watched it dye your hands black, with its hope.
Poem copyright 2024 by Samantha Thornhill. All rights reserved.
See two more poems from Samantha Thornhill debuted on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Midases,” and “Four Sonnets.”
Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt