Ode to the Stain in the Bathroom Carpet
The bathroom sink on the second floor
is my favorite place in this house because
it drips and churns and then just
And everything suddenly stops.
The carpet is stained a wine red.
I think it’s funny because sometimes I
lie on this dirty floor and roll myself
in the dampness of an old bath and
it smells awful but
the carpet is stained wine red
even though we never bring food or drinks up here.
Isn’t that fascinating?
The stain never gets any pinker.
No matter how many times I
shuffle over it with wet feet after
I’ve washed my skin with the peach-scented body scrub
he got me for my birthday.
It smells so good.
The stain never moves.
No matter how often I’ve held a sponge over it and
sacrificed buckets filled with Clorox concoctions to it,
it simply won’t budge.
The stain clearly has its mind made up.
We decided that it was best to simply put
another rug over it.
When I go to lie down on the bathroom carpet I
sometimes lift the rug to make sure that the stain is still there.
I don’t want it to leave me.
And perhaps I spend hours lying on this floor
with my hair fanned out
because I mourn that wine stain
and the way it’s shaped,
kind of like a rainbow,
turned up at the edges.
How could I not think that it’s pretty?
It has my smile.
He calls for me while I lie on this stained carpet,
the rug lifted.
The name my father used to call me.
Jesus turned water into wine, and I’ve
never known another man who could do the same.