bath time | by Savannah Slone

turn the tassel of the cloudy faucet
season water with salts
lilac nail polish
plum cheekbone(s)
scalp sweat
lukewarm myths
molten eyeliner drip
historic clavicles

water so hot you see the heat on the horizon
you half-expect a cowboy to walk up
a cowboy who can walk on water
a cowboy Jesus

rest your forehead on your bent knees
two doors half shut
taste the salt of yourself
belly rolls
mismatched areolas
dry        prickly knees

gaze through the window of your thighs

see your hands
dancing coyly
pointer fingers inching together
your very own Creation of Adam

massage yourself clean with a bar of Dr. Bronner’s soap
making your bath milky

cracking joints sounds different underwater

lay back, everything underwater but your nose

            now, float.



Savannah Slone is a queer writer who is completing her M.F.A. in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry and short fiction has appeared in or will soon appear in Heavy Feather Review, Boston Accent Lit, The Airgonaut, Ghost City Press, decomP magazinE, Maudlin House, FIVE:2:ONE, Pidgeonholes, TERSE Journal, Glass, and elsewhere. She enjoys reading, knitting, hiking, and discussing intersectional feminism. You can read more of her work at

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