Conrad Gamble

Writer | Director

The Last Bath

The bottom of her forearms rest along the sides of her bath.

The bottom of her tongue rests in her mouth.

Her bottom she rests in the bottom of her raft.

She’s overdressed.

This is no place for a scarf.

She turns on the hot tap.

Smoke says its long goodbye to the wick.

Silk drowns around her.

She starts to steep.

Never again to stir.

Mascara it seeps

Before the sleep occurs

The steam starts the siege

The mirror on the ceiling begins to fog.

She spits sticks and stones skyward

And through her eyes,

Twin wells in the artic,

They fall back into her,

Plummeting, never to hear the splash.

I met her once, looked straight at her bum.

Assumed no one was home.

My headlights scanned high.

Across bare walls.

Not knowing

She was underwater,

Fully clothed in the bath.

At the bottom of herself.