Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Shawn Fawson
In the Bathhouse
You kept her things as she had arranged them on the sill:
the kakisubata iris in the bronze vase, the tortoise-shell
hairpin fallen out of reach.
I imagine her sidelong glance,
the weight of rain along her eyelashes
never intending a blink.
While waiting for the water to become warm, the coals
in the brazier sift through the sooty darkness. Stirring the crooked light
to steam beneath my hand, I want to forget the silence she has brought,
but stirring with the ladle, I hear the water walk on itself.
If I so much as breathe,
the lightness of silk will drop onto you.
This is the privilege of being discreet—to know the solitary
rain against the wooden slats and at your back
where the only apology is to take myself apart
with my own hands,
the touch of water
strips our world to its bones.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 59