Last night, I dreamt,

I dropped bright soap into sewage,

so straddled dark manhole,

drew out with bucketed fingers

that bled ink - without smell

though liquid was blood-sticky,

that luminous oblong

rode on rafted hands; the colour

of a bath-time duck,

I knew it for the rough soap

of my childhood, ironic* in its name –

bright star in Midnight's maw –

and I suppose, it's possible also

the soap I'd rescued could be that

which haunts you, so,

Dad*.

~

*The soap's brand name was Sunlight Soap.

*My father was placed in a forced labour camp when 15. The soap they were given was made of human lard.