The Warm Bones

We are running a bath, my sister and I,
The river drips, drips through the ceiling
While my fingers write poetry on the steamy mirror.

She sits on the bathroom floor, eating chocolate.
Mother says people like her will grow fat and
I know she is probably right
But Clara is always in the same room with me,
Eating chocolate,
Watching my very words.

Clara agrees that I should wash first
And whilst I take my clothes off
All my warm bones fall on the white marble.
She admires my tallness
And folds away my perfect dress.
Clara examines my poem, moving her head from side to side,
Asks whether all this writing is about her.

I do not hear the question
I wash my hair with soap
Her hands follow the lines of my text.
I cannot stop starring at
Her thin reflection in my black icy water.

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