Spitting with anger and beauty, a poem, like this one, is almost as brave as the woman, like this one, who writes it.
By Elizabeth Langemak:
A PHOTOGRAPH OF HER SHOWERING
As passionless, burned-out, dusty shells, we dislike love poems . . . As [one of our
editors] says, why not “text me a photograph of her showering”?
I am enclosing, as text, the photo
you ask for. Though my husband
refuses, I make this in secret
and print it black over white. Though
the angles and lighting are tough
to nail down, and the process
makes my whole body a long face
for tears as the spray breaks over
my scalp and rolls down.
Though my right hand withers,
as I rake damp hair into rows.
Though the cheap curtain cleaves
to my thigh, I peel it off like a rind
teased from its fruit in one strip.
You thought I was dusty, a shell.
You said I was burned out,
but now my skin is slapping and slick,
the camera demanding…
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