Like Water by Chris Abbate

Like Water

After we install the faucet in the kitchen,
after navigating the roadmap of instructions
and cursing the adapters, washers, and retainers,

after we distinguish the O-ring from the trim ring
from the base ring, secure the mounting bracket
and nut, and use the hose guide to thread

the stubborn hose through, I reach out my hand
and you pull my stiffened back like a plank
from under the sink and we turn the handle

for the obedient stream and embrace
like the way we would in the stairwell of our college dorm,
the crown of your head fitting under my chin,

our hands surveying each other’s landscapes,
me kissing the water of your forehead goodnight,
the same water that fills this house on a Saturday

in November, quickening our flesh, our valves
harnessing red and blue fluids, an abundance of water
pooling at the tap, gathering thickly under our feet.