Fenola watched
as Eileen bathed.
She took in
the hand

moving
the lathered sponge
over the contours
of the body,

moving between ****
like some
venture ship of old,
moving down

the belly,
beneath the soapy water
to the pleasure dome,
then out again

around the neck
and under chin,
then whole body
over once again.  

She knew that body well,
each inch of flesh,
each orifice,
each smell,

each loving touch.
Even the thought
pleased her
overmuch.  

Eileen looked over
where Fenola sat,
on stool,
in bathrobe,

with feet
on mat.
Come on in,
she said,

room enough for two,
you rub my back,
I’ll rub yours
and other places too.

Fenola thought awhile,
took in her eyes
that gazed,
the smile

that spread,
the memory
of the afternoon
in bed,

the positions held
and played,
the *** ensuing.
Eileen pointed

to the soapy bath,
come in,
she said
with **** laugh.

Fenola stood up
from the stool,
disrobed,
set it aside,

stepped in the bath
and sat down,
the water engulfing.
Somewhere

from the other room,
Ravel played
from hifi speakers,
Bolero

or some such piece,
the sound touching
the bathroom walls
with steam and scent.

The girls rubbed
and scrubbed
and laughed
in soapy water,

each one
like a siren
of the sea
or Neptune’s daughter.