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Jane Fraser Esson

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At The Galliert Baths

Greeted by steam, I gaze about me,
at a strange bevy of assorted females . . .
One scowls; her pointed breasts
float on the water, battleship guns.

A young girl glides, tanned, golden
as her flashing wedding band;
another holds her rounded buttocks
under the hot tap’s steaming jet.

I swim four lengths to ease my stress,
then, calmer, grasp the pool’s side,
remove my goggles from smarting eyes,
gaze at the low, arched ceiling.

Clouds of steam obscure its grace;
the lush, fetid air seems threatening.
Sharp cries, boisterous splashing
echo and rebound around me.

The custodian’s voice, a harsh cry
sounds a warning: ‘Your hour is up.’
I pass my tongue over salt-caked lips;
my toes grip the slippery floor.

I creep back slowly to my cabin,
a trembling wreck, a jellyfish.
Clothes clinging to still-damp flesh,
I exit slowly, towards the light.

 

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