At the Sinks
Christian Harder

We are after all a signifying species;
even the dimensionally minute retains a sure stature.

Mindful of this, I spend extra time at my sink -- usually in the nights,

not always. It's nothing you wouldn't expect:

Unpretentious, milky, ceramic, and nice to touch.

It is not, as some are, attached to a cabinet, but rather affixed to the wall

by braces and pipes. But my sink is a sensual object.

It's a careless, carnal animal; its skin -- slick as a tusk --

boasts a chill temperature, and things down its throat go gurgling.

Ah, the way on it liquids well, making puddled bumps and weals!

I mistreat it, sending down at waist height whatever I like: water usually,

but also: toothpaste, hair, gel, semen, and soap. The drain mouth

takes these easily, leaves the glaze untarnished. Sometimes, I

do not turn the lights on when I am with it.

Yet even in low light or no, I plumb its depths with sound and spit.

In the same dimness I wonder about equivalent fixtures

in rooms different than mine. Some sinkly features must always present.

Imagine the rest of us, dipping into the same troughs, throttling

the same knobs. Life is like that -- similar properties apply.

At the sink you submit to the one trembling unity, its gallons and stoppers.

The pipes lead to one area. The outpour enters from one area.

After all, we are also a basin through which

external forces drip, the drain of so many processes:

When the tap runs, the body comes alive. We are left to flood and speculate.