Cézanne’s Bathers

by Mia Aguilera

Picture this: a group of women
just beyond the willows & reeds,

sunlight dappling dimpled flesh
which has been kept covered for days.
Mud seeps between toes.

I am pulled to one.

Hair down to the waist
& flowing like sea grass.
Her feet graze my cool stones.

I lap at the softness of her plump thighs,
rise until I wet her nipples
dark & swollen from breastfeeding.

See the trout meandering past.
How she craves such slipperiness,
to refract light so now one appears
green, then pink.

Suddenly, above, starlings.

What would she say,
if I declared I wanted to hold
onto this visit a little longer?

Linger in my sleepy current.
Take this moment to relish how you left your family behind.