The next morning

Stepping into the shower
my skin smells of martini,
its cheap perfume clinging
to the curve of my shoulder.
The stream of water washes it away,
replaces the pungency of gin and olives
with shampoo and soap,
but it does not dilute the fingerprints,
does not scrub the impressions
of your thumb and fingers
from the concave of my back
from the arc of my jaw that last night
smelled only of a ten-minute shower