Tassajara


Tassajara 

Black stone basin lined with river rocks 
breathes sulphur at the sage,
holds minnow-wheels of minerals, 
forms silken skin on skin.
The many naked women wont meet eyes.
They line the parlor stream
like pampas grass, 
lower themselves like ripe melons
into the sage-worn dirt.
They bake and stretch their bodies,
each sinew classic brush-stroke.
My skin a dried pearl, I rest my 
head on a shaded river rock.
I watch the grinning dragonfly
smolder blue
more convincing than shame.

Jessamay Howell