Kelly Grace Thomas

We Do Mushrooms in the Bath in Napa

How good it feels to be naked and nowhere

else. The edges of us blurred and out of focus.

Our fight, forgotten. Blame in piles on the bathroom

floor. You take a photo, my loose laughter, my gown

of suds. Love, it’s horrible what middle age has done

to us: mortgages, toddler tantrums, constant tyrant

of time. Forgive me for the worry, the ways stress stitches

my speech. Survival can feel so solitary. But now

the water laps. The mushrooms nudge. Open

and more honest, we float. Of course, I’m lonely too,

I whisper. Put my hand to your cheek. Maybe

the hardest part of love is remembering it’s there.  

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