Quelle: poetry p f
The Muses Of The Shower Room
They’re there behind the shower curtain,
giving off headiness of rose, the calm of geranium
mingled with salt of a fresh swim.
Snuck under the bra of a tankini is a seaweed flower.
What more to be said? Yet still they shadow
the quiet of distance: when I’m changing a bulb
or in need of the bathroom on waking in the night,
they insist on holding to the subject of how the tide
has reached the shingle line, evening breezing
into the bay, asking only that the waves break at the edge
of consonance, that vowels be bestowed
with the soughing quality of the near-drowned,
who with their lives unspooling near the end,
hear the manatee give one last call.
Of syntax they desire an expansiveness, a oneness
between body of text and their own fluent strokes.
What if I can’t convey the rocky escarpments,
shifting light and breaking surfaces? Or if I fail
in the sludge between words, to suggest the power
of the submerged narrative of love’s losses
and growing old? Will they pursue me until the work
is done? Until they, untouched by winter coming on,
bask in the shored up waters of the page?
But I hear them now - emerging from the sea
and heading for the shower room … trailing their towels
along the sand-swilled floor! Yes, I can feel the pummeling
all down their spines, taste the fragrance lapping their silhouettes.