I haven’t written about being in the bath in a while.

Larkin wrote about lambs whilst I write about 

the pink between my toes; wondering if when

I was born I knew I would be raised for the

slaughter. My lamb eyes blinking, drinking

in the sun.

 

Until I learned how to drink bathwater.

Drown myself incrementally until my knees

quit wobbling and I stepped in line.

 

In line for the words which tumbled with 

Bambi grace from my mother’s lips

when she called it madness.

And I see her too, just waiting for the shears

and left wandering lonely hillsides;

so I forgive her.

 

& bleat because lessons are never learned.

 

I realise now this has nothing to do with the bath

apart from how heavy water is when it sits

in your lungs -stones in overcoat pockets-

apart from how often I wonder if my chewy

lamb heart ever knew I would be raised for the

slaughter and still call it madness rather than method

 

& bleat because lessons are never learned.

 

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Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020

My poetry collections:

Flowers on the Wall UK

Flowers on the Wall US

Between the Trees UK

Between the Trees US

https://linktr.ee/KristianaReed