Today's poem is by Dom Witten

Broken Showerhead
       

Water pleas mercy before landing at the bottom of my shower. A loud smack announces contact with the black paint my landlord swears is waterproof. I put a blue towel down when Momma calls to ask, what was the best thing about your childhood? I breathe in before saying, it was my sweet sixteen party. Momma, clad in captain's hat drove a decked-out school bus so me and friends could watch Titanic at a secret location. It's my second favorite movie. I loved that Momma and Mama T smiled in sync. Two sisters reunited after the fault of addiction collapsed. Mama T made nachos and Momma made powdered sweet tea. In that moment, we were all teeth and all together. Back then Momma ain't have to enforce Mama T to take her Skittles. Mama T danced my conception with a man I'm afraid to know. Momma took me in her arms at age one and changed my name. She said your name means dominion. But where is the kingdom I rule, if I am stuck on this bathroom floor watching the towel disintegrate? I can still hear water knock its head against the shower floor. Although I can't sleep, I must say I enjoy that it doesn't call on my birthday and vanish when I ask about lineage or loss or cause. Momma asks instead, what is the best thing I poured into you? I mosaic light bulbs and forgiveness and violins when all I meant to say was gratitude.

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Copyright © 2023 Dom Witten All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission