The Maynard
Spring 2016


Guest House

If I bathe today as then, one kettle of hot water, standing in an orange tub with a sliver of soap and dull red dew rag, acquainting myself with skin raw and unreconciled

If I bathe you, hot night in Stonetown, weary from travel, disoriented by heat and diesel smoke while students next door play music too loud. I go over to plead for quiet and end up eating chili paneer, drinking scotch by the fire, and answering questions. No, we have no wives. No, no children. Leaving them baffled as the sun began to rise

If I bathe you tonight as that night in candle glow lambent as touch, my fingers trace your temples with precious shards of ice while I sing to cool the heat, lift the dead weight of each limb, wash each finger, softly cup your genitals to kiss your thigh before resting beside you, the bug net shrouding us as frail as light.