The kitchen soap

From the instantaneous crystalline we all are made of to the snow outlines of my very bones

from the red tide of me every corner connoisseur to the sailor wind inside me, undoing me, undoing me

from the substantial fibre to the organic element

from the ovelwhelming second of me heart to the weave made labyrinth

from me sense to pain, me sensation to oblivion

the layer of skin, the next to the last one, to the current, the other, which still holds my scent

I wash my hands over and over, you will come out… entirely

with bubble soap, saffron or azaleas

the kitchen soap

I’ll clean your scent of me wonders

you will come out of me hopes.