Inventory, Day 3: Bathroom

pair of pink doves, gold flecks in the skin, eyes painted askew, wing tips broken, bought anyway, just a feeling they gave, different, like looking at battered animals, rescued from the shelves of a thrift store

cut glass apothecary jar, from the same shelves, filled with Q-tips and cotton balls, sits on the back of the sink, out of place, lonely, stars in the lid, face of the sky, art of becoming galactic, meteoric, la noche

mirrored tray, bottled essential oils, rose, vanilla, jasmine, ylang ylang, three sprays, fills the room, smell of winter, ice skins floating on a pond, bobbing up and down, glass ball on fisherman’s net, fire and ice

lotus floating on a heart, ohm, sound of the universe, not ticking life away on a wall, next to a door, in the tub, dead sea salts, emptied into the coolness of the room, a blue heart, what does it mean, not sad

Kuan Yin, dressed in white, finger broken off, beads in her hair, around her neck, at her ankles, blocks the cabinet door, see imperfect nature, everything fractured finds its way back into the broken world

window, fogged over, skimmed with residue of shampoo and soap scum, can’t see out, can’t see in, what’s the use in such a thing, except a little light, during the day, at night a dark hole in the wall