i once picked up a dime in the shampoo aisle of an
nyc drugstore. several streets later, when i
discovered bethesda fountain for the first time, the dime
burned a hole into my pocket and slipped through
the net of charred & smoking threads
into a portal of ripples. since then i have not stopped
believing in the sting of itching ointment. believing that
emma stebbins must have been thinking
of a lover when she creased eyelids into the
angel of the waters. believing that this was the only way
she knew how to say i love you to this
conversion of the sabbath, same as how the only way
i know how to say i love you is to roll up your
violet-speckled pajama sleeve and rub itching ointment
onto your mosquito bite under the warm orange umbrella
of the lamplight. somehow the sculptor must have known how to
take the stone from the human and cast the human in the stone
yet here i am, still trying to tease the venom from the
lump of bitten-fruit flesh. that afternoon, i thought i saw the shadow
of the angel of the waters peel off the concrete, dust itself
off, and stoop to drink from the pool that churned
with the echoes of each drowning wish, an i love you
carefully sewn onto the rim of each splash. when i squeeze
another dollop onto my finger, you roll down your sleeve.
you say it’s fine. if that were certain, i wouldn’t have scribbled
my whispered wish against the stone pedestal of the fountain
with this itching ointment. but of course i do not say this. i smear the
ointment on my own skin instead. it does not itch, but i wished for
that, too.
