The water doesn’t get changed, and already
            stripped and robed and down the hall I,
like the shiksa I half am,

            equivocate, squirm, make it a word
problem. If that water touches thousands
            of naked baruch hashem women,

what ulterior curls and dimples,
            what zaftig fleshes, what radiance,
moles, asymmetric areolae, crimped

            hairs, toe fungus, Oh God,
warts—steadying, I move toward and
            away from the idea like water
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