"Shower-Fresh, Aphrodite"

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"Shower-Fresh, Aphrodite”
Light bulbs bright in countless million likewise humid rooms,
Walls and mirrors slick with shower steam.
A  woman in Reno  finger-swoops and dots a smiley-face in the shower steam.
A woman in Manila surveys the tools spread beside the sink.
Their open shapes recall clam and oyster shells.
They cup the blush, the rouge, the liners,
these that are to men a mystery in plain sight. I could not name five of these.
A split second now, in which upon these tools the women are bolt-still.
They are wading-birds, standing,
that stare upon a pond just gone overdue to yield up one bubble.
Expert fingers folded wait
till now move all,
fingers too precise to blur but countless in their number.
And here and there like fireworks
Aphrodite rises in puffs of pinkwhite scented powder dust.
Some sticks to a steamslick mirror pane.
Aphrodite risen among the women,
beaded up and rolling down the mirrors and the tiles.
Aphrodite turns, selective, to the fabric, its texture, line and color.
Aphrodite turns, She is mistress of perfume.
Hers the insight into what impression, upon whom.
Hers is just the right polish on just the right nail.
Now Aphrodite garlands Her throat and shoulders with strung pearls,
And the women likewise garland themselves with diamonds and amethyst and pearls and rubies and emeralds and onyx and bright plastic and glass.
Presence is risen among them.
Their breathing slows and draws from deeper down,
 their voices deepen toward velvet.
Their postures partake of the deep.
The women will skip men’s breath at midbreath.
The steam recedes a handmirror’s breadth of clear pane mirror
         before the Goddess.
Aphrodite, who regards Herself and smiles.

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