Diego Salinas

Señora Miladys

I.

Yellow

The tap barely springs a leak. 

It coughs, 

anxious to breathe. 

Nothing comes out of it. 

It suffocated.

II.

He perceives the faint scent of metal. 

A smell that reminds him of blood. 

Of decay. 

Iron oxide on supposedly stainless fixtures.

III.

He cracks the window open.

Light from the street comes in, 

illuminating the granite floor. 

His gaunt face reflects on a mirror full of suds. 

The tap gargles again.

It breaths, spitting air, whistling and trembling.

Liquid emanates from it. 

IV.

Moses strikes the rock for the second time, and water finally flows.

But it's all mud. 

Murky water. 

He leaves the faucet open, hoping the water will clear sooner than later.

Hair comes from the faucet. 

Hair and plant matter.

Algae in yellow water full of mud. 

The tap still works; water keeps running. 

It is not getting cleaner, though.

Now, red

worm-like organisms flow from within the piping

Chironomidae worms. Fly larvae. 

He cups his hands; catches one of them. 

It wriggles --You have to focus your eyes to see it; they are hard to spot. 

His gaze wanders. 

He spots a roach. 

They see each other: antennae against eyes. 

The first hides.

V.

Frustration. 

He’s got no choice. He has to use that water. 

He’s got to use filthy water to clean himself. 

Muddy water to wash his hair. 

Yellow water to cleanse his body. 

He sighs, resisting another lash of the brackish liquid. 

Maybe if he boils it, the water will be clean. There is no time, though. 

He has twenty, thirty minutes of water before it gets cut again.

VI.

He’s got no choice.

He starts with his teeth, 

using toothpaste as if it were myrrh. 

The water runs over the brush, depositing another red worm.

He suppresses a bout of revulsion,
picks out the worm, and steps inside the shower,
combining both activities to maximize efficiency.

VII.

The showerhead sends a lash
of rusty, cold water against his body. 

The wet tendrils run across him until his skin goes numb. 

His body heat counters the cold; 

raising his temperature to make the chore tolerable.

He grabs the soap, the only one he’s got left:
it’s a clay soap, the only one he could find. 

For a second, he dreams of a drugstore full of stuff. 

He dreams until he runs the bar across his body;
the soap is grainy. 

Its tiny, microscopic bits of dirt feel
like sandpaper against his chest. 

He’s careful with the face, though.
A few days ago he bruised it
when rubbing too enthusiastically.  

VIII.

He washed off dirt with a soap made of clay, with water full of mud. 

He would cry, but he’s grown used to it. 

Six months without a steady supply of water and he’s already gotten accustomed
to the situation. 

The faucet coughs again. It seems to be stuck; time’s running thin. 

The gurgling shower spits, hissing like an angry cobra. 

La señora Miladys waits for nobody. 

The super is relentless. 

She has a strict schedule. 

If the water pumps work without water, they might burn
and nobody in the building will ever repair them. 

IX.

He pictures the super’s face and turns the faucet off.

He imagines the smell of the fried platanos she always makes

He could hate her for her job. She is his executioner. 

He doesn’t. 

He refuses to hate her for doing what she’s supposed to do. 

It’s her job.

It is what it is. 

I t 

     i s

         w h a t

                      i t 

                            is.