The Skylark Prize
Spring 2014
Aurelyn Van Kirk

As I Bathe

As I soak like a teabag in the bath,
the night swells with cricket chirps and I wonder
if they sing to the stars,
beckoning them to drift down to earth
and illuminate their thousand eyes.
My fingers trace the squares of the green tiled wall
and water laps the bathtub’s rim.
I want my soul to rise from my earthly body
and spin through the clouds
 like a starling bursting from shady woods,
unwed to hard earth, inches closer to far stars.
I want my fingers to cling on night’s velvet skin;
I want blackness to bleed into my veins
so I may become drenched in night
like a shade descending over a singular world.
I want the white scar on my left thigh to fade
like a rocket rippling through the zenith of dark matter.
I want my seven chakras to overflow
with the light from celestial beings
so I may once again become the maiden,
forever draped in heaven’s dark robe.
I want to bathe in the pure light of Diana
before gravity drags me back to Earth,
back to my dull existence,
back to the life I baptize from myself.

Exposed, like two stripped dogwoods,
my timbered bones protrude from the water
and the steam curls up the hollows of my neck,
flushing my cheeks red
as I gaze at the ceiling,
bare like my naked legs,
pale like my wrists,
dazed like my eyes after the water stills my breath.
©2014 Aurelyn Van Kirk