Why I Take Baths in Lightning Storms
After Frida Kahlo’s ‘What the Water Gave Me’
By Sarah D. Lawson
It is hard to know how much time has passed
inside this well. There is no minute
hand, only palms and the pruning, the nails
peeling away from their fingers
like old paint-
the love lost on the ocean floor
the flowers you left in the water by my bed-
each bloom, the happiest little death.
These are the pieces of me the water gives back.
Every molecule every thorn every dead
skin cell shedding a new opening.
sadness is its own kind of submersion,
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