Bath by Gretchen Rockwell

There is something about the final rising
into the sweet hanging air, whole body
perfumed and heavy, that I appreciate.
I imagine it’s how the frilled shark feels
as it trawls its way through the bathypelagic
zone with its green-lit eyes and feathery teeth.
I once called the frilled shark cute to a friend
and she told me that in fact, it was terrifying,
but she was glad I loved it because everything
needs to be loved: the frilled shark and its prey,
the scientists who gave the midnight zone its name,
the person who made my bath bomb. Even my body
as I dredge it up from the shallow depths of my bathtub,
the scent it now carries as I move through the dark.

 

Gretchen Rockwell is a queer poet currently living in Pennsylvania. Xe is the author of the microchapbooks, love songs for godzilla (Kissing Dynamite) and Thanatology (Ghost City Press), and xer work has appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Poet Lore, FOLIO, FreezeRay Poetry, Moonchild Magazine, and elsewhere. Gretchen enjoys writing poetry about gender and sexuality, history, myth, science, space, and unusual connections – find xer at www.gretchenrockwell.com or on Twitter at @daft_rockwell.

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