Body Wash

Some days the soap doesn’t work in the shower—

the shampoo just won’t lather,

and after, you still feel tacky

as if, instead of water, you rinsed with grape jelly

or shellac. There’s no reason for it,

it’s the same soap, the same water

at the same temperature,

(too hot for your last boyfriend)

the same fiberglass insert

with the same bar of Ivory melting in the corner pocket,

the same chamomile conditioner.

It just won’t work,

and you dry off and dress and nothing’s right

the skirt of your dress is too short

hitting above the knee as if you were still 28

instead of at the knee—you’re in your 40s.

And your sandals give you blisters

before you’re finished making the toast

and maybe the toast burns

while you’re changing shoes,

and there’s dried egg on your plate

it won’t come off, even with a scrubby.

And all the while

as you grumble about the crumbs in your bra

and how much trash is left in the car—

old tissues and gum wrappers—

it isn’t the soap

or the shower

or the toaster

or the trash.

It’s that third set of pictures

they took of your left breast

and the waiting for next Thursday

and the biopsy

that makes your body-wash fail.

That makes you so unclean.