Sunday at the Spa
by Elena Harap
She has arranged the folds of herself,
layered and quiet,
on the flat wooden chair
—she’s weightless now, suspended
in a humid half-light,
in the melody of a distant flute.
The thin girls come and go.
How meager their substance.
Waves of heat from the sauna,
lazy splash of water in the hot pool,
chill lap of its cold twin,
rain-song of showers—
all welcome her flesh.
This sabbath of soaking and basking
celebrate what she is,
Woman of Beautiful Repose.
Her body’s a spreading universe,
her breasts planets,
her belly the sun.
Constellations of arms and legs
give generous light.
The Creator herself is pleased,
re-enters this moment, this very space,
each seventh day,
a respite from heaviness.
Copyright © 2018 by Elena Harap.