Miss Carstairs In The Tepidarium

Naked she stands like Cybele in Rubens'
Union of Earth and Water, loosens her
shoulders in front of an almond shaped mirror.

Mrs Fisher, holding a strigil and a
scented towel, waits patiently like
a magician's assistant, ready to conjour

her mistress' dress and reformed corset
into a wicker basket. The unaccustomed air
stings her throat. 'Have you laid out
   my bearskin ?'

Miss Carstairs asks and her attention
is claimed by her breasts. She oils them,
unpicks her Victorian bob,

lets fall her aubern tresses, touches
that place between her legs
belonging to the devil alone.

The tepidarium is a cathedral of rouge,
mist and flesh and Miss Carstairs walks
across the hydrotherm,

takes her place, gives thanks to the
new-god of all things. She reclines
and abandons herself to the heat.

Her skin begins to weep, her arms
become the hidden succubi, allows the bud
of a finger to enquire after that place,

the soft laminate circumnavigated
like a tiny ship adrift in a secret ocean.
Somebody (not Mrs Fisher,

who has since curtsied and been dismissed)
whispers: "There is heaven and there is
earth and my body is subservient to the purity
   of my soul".

Miss Carstairs unfurls her palm,
devours each sweetly scented twig,
comforts herself, infused and pure of spirit.

Her eyes close. Her mouth re-enquires.
Elevated by the misty encyclical of blood
she bathes with the immortals.