sink

Lucy Thynne

i’ve decided to live in the kitchen sink
i think i’ll fit in better there
and pretend I’m holidaying in st tropez
i’ll float, with the spoon as my lilao
the water’s lips making swollen foam
bracelets on my thighs
and tell my colleagues, all casual
that I needed a change of scenery. i’ll have
tepid showers under the taps all day long, and the
water will become my negative space, cling
to me like a conjoined twin and glaze the
small of my back with the colours of my
dinner. washing up will be a bubble bath of
acrid chemicals, white fuses on milkstone skin
but i won’t mind because i’ll be
making friends with the plates,
having whispered conversations with the
forks. i’ll know the four ceramic walls like
a mother would know the shape of her
baby’s head, and best of all i’d be
scrubbed clean: red, raw and newborn
like crying backwards, and the
plug that swallowed up the sky
would swallow me.