Souvenir I usually cry about my mother in the bathtub with the door locked. Not a slow, pretty tear that could be confused for water or sweat— but a jagged sob, a long moan. I rest my forehead on the cool rim. Try to catch my breath but only manage a ragged sucking of air. My cat’s worried, claws at the door to sing to me, do her silly dance: distract me. I let her in. My body quickly returns to its hot, wet fold. I’m grateful for the headache I'll have tomorrow. Exhaustion is the closest prayer I know.
Melanie Figg is the author of the award-winning poetry collection, Trace. She is a recent NEA Fellowship winner and her poems and essays are published widely. As a certified professional coach, she offers workshops and writing retreats and works remotely with writers on their work and their creative process. www.melaniefigg.net