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The Bath
by Angela Peñaredondo

Do not cover these waters in jasmine,
though my bones hinge and muscles

brace into a locked clam shell.
You place your hands

at the edge of the wooden tub.
Motionless, I study your skin.

I recall those fingers, hot pressed
on my spine. My legs begin to make

small waves. More jasmines cluster
the bath and spread like kerosene

to a match stick.


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