Psychotherapy, with bubbles

The water in the tub steams,
so hot your skin will flame red
as you lower yourself into your liquid therapy,

as the small wine glass perches on the edge,
so cold you can feel each sip frigidly sliding
down your throat.

It’s a small ritual that has little with cleanliness,
and more about soaking the darkness out of your soul,
of letting the heat suck out the world’s coldness

leaving your soul more cleansed than your body,
soothed by the solitude and heat, by the steam
that covers the windows, that blankets the mirrors

so no one can see in, and you need not see anything,
not even yourself. It is here your demons flee,
where purity returns, where dreams turn sweet as orange soap.

This is your sanctuary. You, God and steam.
no interruptions, not even your own. You soak
and for the first time today your mind idles, calms, stills.

The water cools in time, and there is a temptation to leave,
but, you say to yourself, not yet. Linger a little longer,
as your feet turn the knob, hot only, and you begin again.

About this poem

Some people take baths to get clean. For me, that’s just a side effect.

Tom