Tug of War

1.
She turns the shower on,
adjusting the hot and cold knobs,
calling them the sun and the moon,
eager to bathe in their perfect alchemy,
the warm liquid pouring over her head in pure sensory respite,
the soothing fountain hitting the axis of her head,
spreading down her sticky lashes and lips,
down the nape of her neck, down, down,
creating a whirlpool in her navel, running over the round of her elbow, the inside of her thighs, contouring
the entirety of her highly wired body, as she stands gleaming,
seeming silver in the glow of light, golden in some,
mistress of the tides moving inside her veins

2.
An ocean in herself, dismissing the ships that pass by in the night,
comfortable in her endless deep darkness,
conjuring her own stream of light,
her cascading locks arrogant red coils,
refusing to flatten and bend to the explicit, crystal clear command of water,
strong as an arrow, she stands raw, raunchy, rebellious, ever ready
to unleash herself at some invisible assailant,
more weapon than woman,
drenched to the bone but pliant never,
a picture of strung disobedience

3.
Drawing the shower curtain aside,
she steps out and towel dries her enigmatic thoughts,
pulling out her coral lipstick, and deepening their mystery.