Aurora Stewart de Peña
what if you knew me,
and you discovered that
after so long living
in the exact same place as you,
i didn’t know how to shower.
that when i was in there
i rubbed it cold from the tap
in small circular motions with my finger-tips
on my joints and temples
because what else would i be
doing in there with the water rushing?
because my mother
dead for two thousand years
lying with dirt and cut gemstones
between her ribs
taught me never to go in the water
where the fish live
but to remove offending spirits with salt.
you go from wet to dry so quickly
don’t you know i have nightmares
about falling in the lake?
and i get stuck under a boat
and everybody on the surface is laughing,
and the boat has to be my friend now?
don’t you ever worry
while you’re in the shower,
that you’ll never be dry in time?
that this is it?
this is how your skin has to feel forever?
Aurora Stewart de Peña lives in Toronto’s West end. She tends to a small palm tree on her windowsill. She’s had plays produced in Toronto, Brooklyn, Bath & Tuscany. She’s looking forward to a story in the upcoming issue of Little Brother, and has had other work published in The Puritan and The Toronto Standard.