The Bath
Leaning to test the water,
I notice them:
quivering, small,
no longer firm.
Buoys of breath and pulse,
desire—but not
of primitive supply.
Not rich with the urgent
swell of time. Tactile, rigid,
laced with a livid blue
like rivers on a map.
Not that.
I settle back
and trail a finger
in the tub,
study the belly
that fumbled life
like a soapy glass
to a marble floor.
The cool, hard lip
exhales sweet steam
like milky breath.
I shut my eyes,
inhale it to the core
and slowly release
to the salt-warm pool.
It is a body,
feminine enough,
and still
comparatively new—
even at forty,
even despite
or with
the empty rooms.
Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, 2017 ▪ Finalist
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/digital-books-24/v24/digital edition/Complete Digital Version of -/Able Muse, Print Edition (Number 24), Winter 2017