cold water flat

Turned on the faucet and the water ran cold. thinking, no — hoping — that the kitchen was just slow, checked the tub spigot, the real test — luke warm, at best and getting colder. anger can be a chill scream that gathers, pushing up from inside, yet still able to choose among actions. once, she chose to simply drop the wine glass of chardonnay. used gravity like a martial arts master. shards of glass lay like ice chips in pools of cool wine on that beautifully finished wood floor, in the heat of July. 

My comrade is modeling his boxing style after Bruce Lee. balanced anger, dodging blows, moves into his opponent’s unguarded moment. wait! look at this, the habit considered gone, has returned. in one long, soul-wrenching howl, the hound one floor below reveals his identity. you can stomp him into silence only until the next thing sets him off. from here, any impulse to comfort is impossible. silence can range from peace to trauma. then that song plays. a strobe light on chaos. 

For this evening, a large pot of boiling water is enough, but roller coaster memory loops back around a pre-dawn moment before cooking fires are lit, morning ablutions in a searing temple spring — movement intensified heat. god, that hurt for a reason. if you use this container, though, and add just enough of what we’re left with, you’ll get a warm, so-very-nearly luxurious drenching. but do it now. how ludicrous to have even considered waiting for this to pass.