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IN HER BATH / Lois Lindblad lines for a young husband In the bath he draws for her she peels back her civil skin and out slips Venus, like Gilda from her long glove, rude and radiant, thatched like a hut. He soaps all of this. She thinks of him taking the host —a small boy— this concentration, this kneeling. His cock lifts to one, stops. She sees the only earthly being uninfluenced by the sun, blind burrower. Now he tugs her lips and opens, his fingers tough, thick as lilypads. I am a starfish, she thinks. He washes her toes one by one. She says they are her comedy fat pink monks. His hands force her down into water hoyden with her scent. Small tight hairs dot the porcelain walls, the room full of her sweet steam. She drifts. Her thoughts were water once. She praises the passing of that girl 82 · The Missouri Review and rises from the cloak of spent water to the young man waiting with the towel. Outside the tub, the room, the house, the street, the earth, the sun, the moon, the brood of stars, a world of evening pulls like oars the boat and rider one. Lois Lindblad The Missouri Review · 83 ...


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pp. 82-83
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