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.
Eve F.W. Linn received her B.A. cum laude from Smith College in Fine Art and her M.F.A. in Poetry from the Low Residency Program at Lesley University. She has attended the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, the Frost Place Conference on Poetry, and the Colrain Manuscript Conference.
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