Loch Ness

You are in my soap container.
I see you 
as I tilt its plastic base back and forth,
the cold red firmness cupped in my palm.
The soap -- it used to be soap
(is it soap still?) --
the hard white mass gone soggy
from steam, from hot showers, 
turned the consistency of cream cheese, 
of slip at the bottom of a bucket, 
of water.
The soap is water, 
white creamy water that rolls like 
waves as I tilt, and 
I see you. 

You are a flash of black and
you move.
What (who) are you?
I try to find you with my finger but
I am hesitant 
(afraid)
to touch you.
I try to uncover you with waves,
but never make contact because
I am afraid

(that you will be alien
that you will bite me
shock me
taint me
that on touching you I will be
startled and shriek,
waking those still sleeping in the room adjacent, 
dropping the plastic container with a 
crash
and a threat to the safety of my toes,
spilling the soap that is water
down the drain).

I wonder what (who) you are.
A black flash, a pebble, 
the curled, drowned body of a spider

(so similar to the one I found in my glass as a child,
who had fallen into the water and couldn’t
escape,
who drowned and was found
by me in the morning as I
took a sip, 
who scared me,
who still scares me
so that I have never left a drink
uncovered and unattended
since that day).

I tilt the container more,
spilling the soap that is water
over my feet, and 
I mourn
for what is lost.
I feel the bottom of the base,
hard with bumps, unseen, cold. 
The soap is shallow and I know
you are not there.

I wonder where you went.