Bathwater

By Jennifer Cahill

She is in the bath,
dirt tints are in the bathwater;
a mist has formed.

She is clean; she has washed 
the oils in her dirty-
blond hair. A daddy

long leg on the sill
does not scare her, his legs are curled,
still. August also

drenches her skin; she
is still wet as she wraps herself 
in plush towels, red

as her ruddy cheeks.
A bleed on the edge of sky 
as the sun is a burst

clot; her blush is rose 
dust; her aorta widened.
She sees through the glass

the ash colored
Fish Crow, with grass-green shiny
hues on his wings, with gold…

The water in the tub
will drain slowly, gathering 
around the vortex

that drowns spider bones- 
moon, dust colors sucked ’til
the last gurgle; burp.


Jennifer Cahill earned a Masters of Science in Administrative Studies from Boston College. She has published the poems The Foxy Neutrino and War in the Distance is Better with Arkansas Technical College(2020), and Dusk Colored Wings with The Voices Project(August 25, 2020); Gods Feast on Lost Moons with Tempered Runes(2020). She lives in Massachusetts with her cat ‘Tilly.’

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