Water Scars, by Pooja Hiremath

turn on

the jet force like a whirlpool

of the silver showerhead

it hits

like a downpour on a clear 62 fall afternoon

when I think of him, he’s a purple storm without a nozzle

to turn him off

he breezes in with gray clouds and pebbly debris

there is no safe confinement as

in the stall where I can sway to my waterproof radio

warble and soak in lavender soap

a mind of his own, he stops raging at lightning speeds only

when he wants to

in the meantime masking thundering pulses

his waning drizzle his murmuring apology

still stings after his inclement surprise

When I was younger, three weeks ago, sprinklers in the yard

tempted me to run through them barefoot without a second

care about squishy grass and staining dirt

sprinklers and showers have pink gurgling laughs


before his hurricane left me in a stagnantly flooded barrenness

stealing the grace from even sputtering nozzles

-Pooja Hiremath