Golden Shower

Noah Baldino

After, he turns

the water on,

takes the loofah

from my mouth,

fondles soap in,

washes himself off

me. Now fully

lathered, he leads

his detachable

silver shower head

across each crease.

I close my eyes. He

chooses my chest,

pressing into my

skin, which blushes

like any organ,

his shower head’s

pores riding

mine, released

to its heat until,

finally, I feel him

pull back, the spray

surrounding me,

its mind relieving

mine until it’s more

like I’m inside of

touch itself, such

a simple thing,

submission—

an open drain

emboldens

every circling

speck of want.

When he turns

the water off,

it drips, from him

to me. The drops

fall, at first,

so fast. Then,

farther apart.

We wait. I keep

my eyes closed.

This is my

favorite part.

Noah Baldino is a writer and editor from Illinois. His poems can be found in New England Review, the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day, Memorious, and elsewhere. A reader for Poetry, they currently live in Maine.
Originally published:
November 16, 2022

Featured

Community

Finding company on and off the page
Carl Phillips

Conversations

Emily Ogden and Dana Spiotta

Reckoning with middle age and complicity
Emily Ogden
and
Dana Spiotta

The Stakes of Dictee

An introduction to a famously difficult work
Ken Chen

You Might Also Like

Flies

Maureen N. McLane



Subscribe

Help keep print culture alive. For a limited time, enjoy 10% off two- and three-year subscriptions.
Subscribe