In The Cotswold, Together

self-care is scented lavender and camomile
self-care is rejoicing in our showers, my body and i,

communicating grief for the year in limbo,
gratitude for the day dancing our sweet prerogative
nurturing hope into a thing more tangible
than it was yesterday.

we sing whitney flatly, the shower head a spotlight,
this is madison square garden, the dead skin cells
my fans, plentiful and sun deprived, ever curious
for the lost summer, now sustaining the gold of autumn

the wind swerving its way into our home, shivers
claiming room in this stone abode;
no more salads you say, from here on out     roasts.

self-care is a language spoken in dialects, we reckon,
we cut each other's hair in a little ritual, a cost-effective
exercise. some couples say i know my partner like the back of my hand, but i think of your head,

driving the electric shaver carefully
with precision around your delicate skin,
change settings for the space behind your ears,
move my head with the light to spot flyaways,
blonde and free.

this is all i've got tonight, self-care like a religion,
inches of hair crowding the bathroom floor,
celine dion bouncing off the acoustic walls, i treasure

In The Cotswold, Together

this. if time has slowed down let it be to remember
how much i loved you in argentina, worlds apart,

and how much i love you here, in this bathroom,
In The Cotswold, Together.