An opening forms where my body lays poised, the bubbles retreating aside like dunes revealing my hands cupped like a mannequin and my limp floating mid-arch, uvular, and drowned in speech below swirling soap, powdered snow, frayed by wind, hiding those wide eyes caught dead when most alive, and their screaming, open palms against the glass, holding up. You’d think bubbles should be the quietest of things, but try to put your head into the hive and listen to the opera they sing. Frozen in time, deteriorating, changing, out of sight. I wonder, too, if clouds make the same music of these mounds. So next time I’m on a plane, I’ll listen loud frayed by wind with wide eyes and open palms against the glass, holding out.
Bubble bath, for adult and child by Thomas Baruzzi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.