Limescale curling around a plug hole as a dragon’s tail.
I washed underwear, colour of Virginian red clay mines
In the same sink
That I spat toothpaste in at five years old.
Nimbostratic rusted water, hemmed with soap scum,
The kind of water you could drown in –
as your mother is settled by the stove searing onions in oil –
Without ever being killed.