Cleansing

My sleep last night was not restful.
I twisted with pain

like wool in a wash pool—
soaked in caustic fuller’s soap,
agitated, tread on, scrubbed raw,
wrung out.

I resisted, objected:
         I don’t like this.

The Fuller rested,
massaged knotted hands,
sighed as He dripped sweat,
knee-deep in stench:

         It’s hard work to make you clean,
         for us both.

I woke fitfully,
then sank again into dreams—
this time trying to relax
and let myself be washed.

• Resource: Refiner’s Fire and Fullers’ Soap

• Read more of my poetry at www.facebook.com/latterdaysaintpoetry

• Contact me at merrijane.rice@gmail.com