The bath

The bath

By Agatha Tweedie

Gleaming silver faucet, an entrance to Bliss,  

once filled, body enters.  

Half sunken like a long lost sculptural beauty, 

Pink in the heat, unlike the marble, 

Less chiselled though sharp in temper. 

All soft now, the water melts her 

The foam dissolves with her hair and her disguise and the dirt. 

Music underwater, a muffled beating of the heart, 

Demanding,  

And she washes, 

A baby, a girl, a woman all at once, 

Though the plug once released, all sins 

And purity drains away, left with a  

Human once again.