Abigail’s Story (A Poem by Abigail Ottley)

Scraped clean

So many baths, and the door locked for hours.

I’m reading, or busy in the kitchen.

You are wreathed in steam like a scalded pig,

your pink head, razored smooth.

Your arms, your legs, every inch of you, scraped clean;

you are scoured and polished to perfection.

Now you’re Eros in a bathrobe, your golden limbs unfolding

by the flickering warmth of the stove. Soon I will breathe

in the perfume of your skin, aromatic as incense.

I will turn towards you as you are curled in sleep

and hesitate for fear you will wake.

I’m afraid that like Psyche I will find myself undone

by the spilling of one scalding drop of need.

By daring too much beneath these fine cotton sheets,

I may lose the very comfort I seek.

Still I stretch out my hand, holding my breath, find

your long, broad back is an escarpment.

This darkness between us is nothing if not eerie.

You are impassive as a mountain under snow.