II from The Survivor | Jenn Koiter

Because you were alive

the last time I showered,

I put it off as long as I could.

I’m not stupid. I knew

it wouldn’t stanch the grief.

I just wanted to carry the world

that had you in it

that much longer, if only

those few microns of cells

at the surface of my skin

and the slick of oil on my scalp

that touched the air we shared.

Though when I finally caved, I scrubbed

my skin red, I lathered my hair

twice, I deep conditioned

my sad split ends. I shaved.

Because this is what the living do:

we exfoliate. Then we stand

and we weep for our dead

till the water runs cold.

Jenn Koiter’s poems and essays have appeared in Smartish Pace, Bateau, Barrelhouse, Ruminate, Rock & Sling, and other journals. She lives in Washington, DC with three gerbils named Sputnik, Cosmo, and Unit.