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After Hours In Chinatown


After Hours in Chinatown

 

The spa was down an alleyway, with

chipped green doors and frosted glass.

The stylists took the Metro 6

and left their tools in jars of bleach;

the real room was behind the shop.

 

There women, small and tightly coiffed,

went nude or draped in satin robes

while steam poured out from everything:

caves of drains, and trees of showers

basins of lakes and spigot streams.

That place was a country of its own.

 

I left my clothes on a lacquered bench.

The ladies peered from cornered eyes

at spidered breasts and salmon thighs.

They formed in flocks like birds and

raised their brows in parted wings,

 

but an old attendant touched my hand.

She laid me down beside a sink,

and lathered me with myrtle soap,

she scrubbed me with a bristle brush

 

but didn’t speak, just wiped her brow

as if up to her ancient thighs

she stood in mirrored pools with

slanted sun and fields of rice.

 

She washed me like a child until

I’d never lied, or misused love

Category: My articles | Added by: Kristin (09.20.2011)
Views: 188 | Comments: 1 | Rating: 0.0/0
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