Poem 4 ± November 4, 2018

Robert Carr
Bathhouse Without Ceilings

Red-lit hall, open doors,
tiny rooms without ceilings,
pipes flat-pulse black.
Belly down, men arch
toward webs of LED stars.
Silent language written on cheap
sheets in tooth mark.

Bare feet shuffle toward terry
towels, eyes on backs adjust.
An under-lit face at the end
of the hall sits staring—
Squeak of cot, the shrimp of toes.
Cell phone glow, lips moving.
I remember a double-skin

tent, silver teeth, a zip
of long ago, the slip of sleeping
-bag down. A good-looking kid
in a tent at camp, flashlight
held under his chin.
Jawline shadow, the lure
of forelock, the way he kissed.

 

 

Massachusetts-based poet Robert Carr is the author of Amaranth (Indolent Books, 2016) and The Unbuttoned Eye, a full-length collection forthcoming from 3: A Taos Press. Among other publications his poetry appears in the Bellevue Literary Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Massachusetts Review and Rattle. Robert is Developmental Editor with Indolent Books and an editor for the anthology Bodies and Scars, forthcoming from the Ghana Writes Literary Group. Additional information can be found at robertcarr.org.

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