I saw naked women scrubbing salted
skin as my mother ushered me
past. Eyes lingered on bodies raw
and round. Breasts dangling, bellies
drooping. Sketched scars and stretch
marks painted in different shades.
Clay earth, bruised sky, blue vein.
My own body was a girl’s then.
Still, I’d graduated from running
naked through my home to needing
to hide myself. I barely remembered
the bloom of my own mother’s
breast that fed me. She too
now dressed behind closed doors
unable to know or to teach
being seen without sex or shame
or desire. Even now in a locker room
I cover quickly, but long to be
these women. Limbs sloughed
pink after sinking heavy
into a hot spring. I can hear
their breathy sighs as water carves
rivers over curves. Their soft whispers
saying simply—yes.
