The Russian and Turkish Baths
We don’t know where we are going next but we stand outside the subway station, passing a cigarette between us. It is evening, so there are people. They slip into buildings, they cluster outside places waiting to be allowed in, they walk in the hurried directions of their minds. In the afternoon, because there was only going to be rain, we went to the baths and got lashed by a man holding a sheaf of oak leaves. They were foamy with soap and oil, rough, resinous. I asked for a sprig to take with me. Afterwards, as we walked for blocks without any aim, I thought of the icy blue pool and the grimy tiles, your skin yellow in the underground light. I kept crumpling the leaves in my pocket. Now, when you glance away for a moment, I smell my hand, like the figure in that poem, pressing the beloved’s used bloody bandage to his lips.
Previously published by The Georgia Review
Rick Barot's most recent publications are a book of poems, Moving the Bones (Milkweed Editions, 2024) and a chapbook, The Emperor of the Cut Sleeve (Sixth Finch Books, 2025). He lives in Tacoma, Washington and directs the Rainier Writing Workshop, the low-residency MFA program at Pacific Lutheran University. His next book of poems, Shadow Machine, is forthcoming from Milkweed Editions.