He bleats like a goat
when she takes off her
clothes, steps -- toes first --
into the mildewed tile box.
He streams like the Conodoguinet
when she lathers up under
the water's massage, hopes
she'll never realize he can see
through the sky light, thrugh
the fog, her dark layer of hair
trail like seal skin down her back,
pink roses bloom on
her cheeks and her shoulders
under the hot water.
he liquefies like burning tallow
when she opens her mouth and
it fills with water, spills over the
corners, down, over the crowns
of her breasts, converges
below her naval, drips down the drain
from a beaded curl at the vortex of
her thighs.
He hardens like brick when he
remembers that this is not his wife,
this is not his house, his skylight, his
soggy toilet paper: that he has to
return to Edna, queen of a chill
aimed at him.
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