Marisa, after bathing

Gooseflesh erupts on curves
of legs.
Tight nodules of skin
amidst the colorless down
that is peculiar to
thighs of women.
Shivering naked in the
lilac glow
of this efficiency bathroom,
I can study her slowly.
Deliberately.

Her topography
of peaks and marshes.
Rivers
which I have seen
on summer days
meander her length from
neck to navel.

Framed against steamed glass,
Bare skin translucent.
Raphael’s Madonna.
Her brush strokes are
the scars,
the soft dimpled cellulite
that collects about the hips.
Angelic imperfections.

Couldn’t she be a
saint?
If only in this moment.
Freshly washed,
dripping water softly
down cathedral pedestals.
Candles and coins
at her feet.


by Josh Palmer