after Georgia Ifunaya’s Self-Love 

running water
from the shower
becomes hands
& crawl my skin
like cover crops over soil, 
planting a million pimples 
on my body—a land fertile
with want. 
I slide into the tunnel
of my left palm’s index
and thumb, 
slippery like okra’s draw
made from soap and water. 
this is how I tell my body
I love you, 
a fellowship with eyes closed, 
desire popped up
like opened picture 
on phone’s gallery, 
and breath caught
with body trembling
—a flesh quake, 
the world dead. 
then an exodus of self
—a coming out. 
and surrendering
into guilt’s arms
feeling all filthy and sinful
remembering what the pastor says
about my love and a fire
that never sleeps
and will never turn
my body
to black powder
but offer
an everlasting pain, 
the water
from the shower
washes it all away
along skin, 
semen and soap lather.