She prefers a hot bath,
but her rental apartment,
a converted woodshed,
only has a shower.
She sits cross-legged on the tiles,
takes the shower head,
runs hot water over her body,
clearing away the grit of the day.
She does this in the morning
and before bed,
always the hot water running,
her face veiled through the steam,
rivulets over shoulders,
down her abdomen,
along her legs,
cleansing her spirit,
carrying her stresses to the drain,
but still unable to wash away
those groping hands,
the humiliation,
the hopelessness,
the wickedness of the one man
who was supposed to protect her
and guard her against the evils of the world.
The hot water could wash away many things,
but not that.