Travelling North

Banya Beauty

The daimon of mist -

Achlys

presses searing thumbs against my

retinas.

Her whorling prints, cataracts

that bring

a different form of seeing.

Do not squint

nor peer, she dry-whispers in my ear.

Open wide your sight. You

are not Lear.

Nor am I Cordelia, I counter.

Thin lips rictus -

That

remains to be seen.

Layers of seeing -

cellophane over nitrocellulose,

POV -

memory versus reality.

Throughout the banya,

pale arms perform

libation.

One's gentle nurture

tenderly lifts

compliant flesh.

Rhythmic movements are reverent,

they resurrect

an older kind of worship.

One acolyte, languid-

leans -

alcoved in abstraction.

She fingers

a water-darkened chain,

smoke-curl of smile unfurls -

rondo refrain.

Eyes closed, she waits.

When crescendo comes

down falls deluging fruition.

Only then

can skin reveal

seal-wet and silky-sheened her

Selkie self.