Ablutions

With 50 square allergens glued to my back
("We'll get to the bottom of this," said Dr. Pehr,
"Just keep it dry for 48 hours"),
I have no choice but to lean over the bathtub
And detach the shower, to wash my hair.

Then something happens.

When the first cautious stream of water grazes

Against the base of my neck (I'm testing the heat),

Then in stronger rivulets flows down my skull,

Massages my temples as I angle my head

And feel my hair weighing down, heavy and wet,

Something unsnaps inside and lets loose a flood,

A deluge of tingling turbulences

Travelling up and down the spine and time,

To when I used plastic jugs to pour water

(Heated on wood stove) over my head during black-outs,

And further still, to a long yellow plastic tub

With a longitudinal crack near the rim

Where I was immersed and bathed by soft hands,

And then even, across centuries of wells,

Buckets and basins, to those primal dawns

When I was crouching by the cold limpid water,

Waiting for fish; washing my hands in the river.