The Girls’ Locker Room: A Poem


By convention, this scene–
all of us stripped, brassieres, a rainbow
of midriffs squirming to hide
our inner thighs–should be smothering,
a feather pilow of awkward and bodies,
deceptively plush, warm
moist breath against cotton. But

something about the light–dim and clean
on the blue locker columns, and our warped reflections,
abundant rolls exposed
as if through the murk of some lagoon–

comes as a relief. In this chamber,
we are all of one womb, dangling naked
from one omniscient placenta,

and the fluids I exhale
are the breaths you take in through thin pink lips.