Poetry and Poetics
THE POOL IN THE YWCA
My piano teacher stands before me nude,
a towel folded on her arm.
Fluorescent light makes caverns
of her wrinkles,
a broken egg of collar bone protrudes.
Composed as if she wore
her mouse-brown cardigan,
high-buttoned blouse and wilted skirt,
on how swimming tones the muscles,
brings a glow to my young skin.
Tired, I suppose, of my silence,
she turns toward the women’s locker room,
duck’s feet slapping the wet tile—
Miss Schmidt, whose hands bathe in music,
who promises, if I practice,
I could be like her.
© by Constance Vogel
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