Cake of Soap

It’ll do anything for a rub
before being dumped
back in the dish.

It wants its congealed grey suds
to be scrubbed off by lovers
and strangers, slips out a little
Downy bear giggle,
bubbling anew
for each new caresser.

A quick handling is all it asks,
a chance to foam
for an appreciative someone.

“Use me!” it froths
from between filthy palms.
It wants to get in there,
the creases, the dirty bed
of each nail. It’s shameless,
really. And where does this get it--
the lather, the craving it sheds
like invisible skin,
over and over?

A drowning, colorless sliver:
the drain cover won’t lift a finger
to save it, a blink in the darkness,
a clean that won’t linger.

Erin Redfern writes and teaches in San Jose, California. Her poetry has appeared in Zyzzyva and Red Wheelbarrow.