Andrew DeMarco

Soap Dies, Too

I remember when I was born:
the capacious factory conveyor belt,
my elder family stacked, wrapped tight
in plastic, on egg crates.

I had known them barely a day
when they left their homes
for their final destinations.

That was before I shipped out, too.

The truck was large and loud.
I was packed with strangers
products not of my species.

I didn’t know I was to end up here,
on this dusty shelf below a window,
surrounded by cracking white paint,
poised for the return of my owner.

It was awkward, our first time.
He took me out into the air, and I was
freezing: I had gotten used to my
transparent jacket. Within moments
I was scalded, my skin melting, ever
so slowly, I realized that
at this rate I would--
I don’t know the word for it.
This epiphany made me beg my owner,
made me beg him to take me out of
the corrosive, scalding water, and
to stop his rubbing and scrubbing.

Thankfully, he did. He sat me on the shelf.
I sat there for days and days
unused, watching my owner decimate
my brethren,
praying he wouldn’t think of me.

And in lieu of melting I became dry and cracked.
I could no longer speak, and he threw me out.