rinsing

rinsing

I’m sitting on the wood decking around the water courtyard– the water flows beneath us, but in the wide square at our feet it’s shallow and black against the bottom– decayed leaves and mud, probably, but the water above clear. the person sitting beside me is covered in soapy foam– it just sprouts spontaneously, or I suddenly see it. I begin scooping water by handfuls to stroke along the arms, rinsing the person’s smooth skin clean while they sit still and patient for me to do this work– it never occurs to me that they might rinse themselves– it’s a kind of care-full tribute. the arms go well, but when it comes to the face, I have to carry the cupped water such a distance and turn my hand at such an agle that most of the water slips away and it becomes little more than a caress along the the cheek and jawline– in the gesture love grows.

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