In the Bath with George Harrison

 

His arms around my waist

we sit in the shower.

Our clothes --black as shadow

gray as smoke --are a stain

on white porcelain.

We are awash in the sequined

hiss and splash of water.

It falls from his eyelashes

onto my flat black hat,

rolls to the edge and hangs

a crystalline pendant

He reaches for a towel.

It is the moon --distant, virgin.

His fingers mar the surface

with eighth notes.

He cannot be dry.

We will never be dry.

 

Judith Benedetto