The Bathers

OCTOBER 1980

IRVING FELDMAN

THE BATHERS

Can there be women alone and no serpent near?

The haze conceals a hint, the hint a presence...

Student of opportunities, he licks the air...

"Who are these, flittering swift perfumes,

this pair of pairs,

in two-piece swimsuits,

two black, two blood-red,

in taut and ruffled satin,

waves of their hair waves of the sea?"

Touch one anywhere and you are touched by all

-so every raindrop holds the whole sea.

"Who are these strangers,

with sharp little teeth and little pink tongues,

deftly clicking bobby pins apart

or running a thumb along a halter strap

-strangers but as if intended?"

He moves by mere percipience, .

his senses draw near.

"Who lifts an arm, who shakes her curls,

flirting with the universe

-just to show the others she can,

just to let it know who's there?"

Sways elaborate kinks aloft,

preens his keen head.

"But who are they, after all?"

Oiling their arms and fiddling with their hair,

making it behave, not be such a bother,

sprawled or sitting one to a blanket corner,

all combed alike, all made up alike, all

dressed in the uniform of loveliness,

and each the queen of her brilliant parlor,

what can North Star be telling South Wind,

blond Sunrise express to West's brunette

with eyebrows arching, with shrugging shoulder?

"T love cerise!" "I can't stand chartreuse!"

"Me, I'm just crazy about egg-clairs!"

"Kessler's napoleons . . . they're much too sweet!"

"My sister's new jumper is really cute!"

-precious tastes by which they mean to say

that not all raindrops are the same,

as if they could make themselves crystalline,

as if they were not constantly flowing away,

waves of their hair waves of the sea. . .

The beach's whole ear, he would listen forever . . .

Too innocent to sense the serpent there?

a certain air of consciousness

in the air? Not letting on,

excited, they talk louder-to civilize

the creature, to tame the bold fella, whisper

to coax him closer . . . teach him this

is how you treat a girl, this is what

a lady likes, this is how he must say,

how run her errands like any common

kid brother (no harm if he thinks himself

her pet), how stand there charming not

scary, now lay his head harmless halfway up

on her milky thigh . . . till devil himself

would hold still to have his toenails painted

and beg favor to rest on her the sunlamp

of his exclusive attending, be her own,

her private particular sun . . . so great

her neediness is, so great must be

his services-his servitude for her distress,

drowning in beingness-as constant

and changing, as endless as the sea . .

"The wind's coquetting hem,

wave's dark underneath and white release

-brightness too brief!"

His single name for the glittering

of opportunity is woman.

Every girl has a dream, every woman a story.

If she makes excuse, saying, "If Il mess my hair!"

"It's too cold today!" "Really, I'm still full!"

"Oh, I just finished putting my lotion on!"

if she doesn't walk out into the whole

embrace and flowing-then has nothing to say

when she goes among other women

telling their fibs fibs fibs, and must sit there

like a dummy without two cents to chip in.

If she doesn't, the little pitcher

of her lap pours nothing out,

no stain will darken down her skirt

its uncontrollable sap of sorrows and time

while she looks at herself unbelieving

-betrayed betrayed! If she doesn't,

there's no gathering her womb's wet spillage,

and never will learn she has nothing, is

nothing herself; no domain, no house, no land,

servant to everyone's hunger, discarded

afterward, if not devoured during,

her one inheritance her own nerve

-oh must have her way, since she has nothing else.

And later, no laying out the dead,

no lamentation, submission, surviving,

no letting the lid down gently,

and letting drop the tiny hidden trump:

denied the first, oh sweetness always of

the last word and taking off the last trick

and leaving the table utterly bare,

and sitting on before the dark waves opening

and closing their jaws over the bare beach

while she says her story out to the sea,

"I have been bloody and I will be

a bellyache to the wave that takes me!"

-and never pleasure of the whole deck

snug and full in the palm of her hand

while everything else goes on and on

being nothing-unless she lets it be her:

even losses enlarge her, her secrets, lies

-a fate with the fortunes asleep in her fist-

so massive now that nothing escapes,

so great she hardly knows all she is,

but feels it whenever waves come

and do pretty please to her feet...

Day toward evening; discreetly,

the serpent recedes, seeming to bow and waving,

takes up a post among the shadows, waiting...

Who are these bright flecks carried along

on the tiding flank, still speaking?

"My mother needs me!"

"I promised my sister!"

"My father wants me to help!"

"My boyfriend's waiting!"

To be required, requested, rich

in society, in obligations, not

less or left behind, and belong

wholly to their time, as if they were not

flowing away . . . They pack up, go heavily

-the graces of dawn are donkeys at five

in service to what old discipline of bearing,

opportunity to others but such problems

to themselves, dull silhouettes lumped out

with comforting bundles, bulk and clutter

of being, cards, a shoe dangled, clothing . . .

a little while longer their radio's

portable rumba stays on dancing alone

above the sand it will not stir at this

late hour . . . looses its last little thunder . .

No animal in sight, north or south, east

or west, no likely chance, no lively wager . .

A serpent alone and no women near?

Waves have licked the beach clear.

"But who are these,

lightly daring forward,

who approach, who appear?"