"Osmosis"
by
Tom Wheatley
There is water in your fingers,
joints arthritic,
tips crumbled,
nails short, plain, and frayed.
I watch you clean the dishes.
That water is in your skin,
in your lungs,
in your eyes,
murky brown with grease,
and the permeating miasma
that fills the house—Old Spice,
and a thousand dreams like light
refracted off bubbles of soap
that slosh among the bits of food
before flushing away into darkness.