4 A.M. Tub Crisis


I am running a bath for myself while you sleep in the bedroom.

Today’s adventure=another surreality.

There is something wrong with this bathroom.

Even the dirty towels are sinister.

I nearly scald myself in my absentmindedness before sitting down on the edge of the tub

and staring out into the hall.

I can hear your snoring all the way through the door and I listen to it without even

knowing I’m doing it until a few minutes have passed and the tub is nearly filled.

When I sit in the tub, I wonder for a second whether it will all end there

but Mr. Bubbles crawls between my legs like the fresh kid he is

(pink on pink—the film kids and lonely guys dig it, they dig it on the dot.coms, they dig it

in the street, they want something they never can be a part of... Mr. Bubbles is of

dubious gender and dubious intent but there is no retracting wagers, pink fades into pink

and all of the webcams swivel in our direction to catch every single minute of it)

and I don’t resist.


I can see the headlines for tomorrow and the confessions I’ll make:

(cathartic moment is brief

  then the spiders show up,

       crawling down the shower wall, threatening to jump right in

               daddy-long legs—and though I respect them immensely, and they seem to have

good intentions and an established agenda, I kill them promptly and have no remorse)

I have been a bad girl.

I have washed you in this tub.

I have squelched bestiality.

I have never watched a sunrise.

I have loved too many men and too many women


and I lean my head against the wall and realize I’m still living.


Johanne LePage