Drain the bathwater which is lavender scented, salted, milk white (imagine mother’s milk not the milk of cows, what you imagine matters), and full of pale pink rose petals, make a drawbridge by how you lift your knees toward your chest a golden wing in the wet white while reading a few lines of Beale Street the section about Ruth’s confession ridiculous/majestic the petals will gather at your feet as the drain growls and the sea level lowers leaving your naked body and the damp paperback open in direct ratio to one another, petals in a heart shape from your ass to your heels squeeze them out like sponges and throw them onto the bathroom tile if he slips crossing over these are coffin flowers if he makes it through your torrent of beauty he can stay the night
