In the electric air, perched on the hard ledge
of the bathtub, I smelled pine needles, burning dust.
Inscrutable as a Sybil, submerged in still water,
your body. One arm dangling over the rim.
Your breasts–– rust brown circles surround elongated
nipples. Sunflowers, I thought. Mine, a small rise, nub pink.
I curled my toes on the bathmat. You stood up.
Along the bottom of the tub, your heels squelched.
You bent to pull the stopper, buttocks puckered,
your spine a string of buttons with no dress––
Folded over yourself––a small wingless bird,
with not even feathers for cover. A tangle, your pubic hair.
A spiral of honey bees rises from a domed glass bottle.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 3.
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