In the Women's Spa
We see our bodies in the steam room
hulking through mist like great Venuses
of Willendorf, monumental shapes glowing
pink, tan, or brown, old ones who have given
out of our flesh, blood rolling down thighs,
milk down chests, perspiration inside arms,
now sweating out our years, not pounds,
terry towels flung aside, limbs relaxed
over tile steps while condensation drips
hot as tears from the ceiling down the drain.
And then in the next-door sauna, stretched
out on baked boards, hair wrapped in towels,
underwear spread to dry, we are free to peer
with wonder at imperfect breasts: too small,
too large, pendulous, some with auereoles
like acorn cups around enormous fruit
or like collars on berries with nippled stems;
free to marvel at imperfect legs like trunks
of trees spread wide over the landscape
through seasons of continual bad weather.
Only the young ones use the scales, weighing
sleek silhouettes and muscles that bud
like teenage boys'. By now we have forgone
men's tools, accustomed to failure and stealth,
backed into corners, too wide to fit seats,
nakedness squeezed into clothing cut
narrow even for our daughters. Soon I
will blow dry, and walk back to the world
under wraps of its disdain, but here I am free,
having rarely loved my form since I was born.
