The
signage on the foreground makes
a hefty
promise of discount –so we enter
the
beauty store, shuffling in
to
an extensive album of soaps, lotions, fragrances.
Inside,
the walls are papered peach. Light
slopes
in, forms puddles on the zigzag of tiles,
cleaned
every hour to restore its glossy lips
of
ceramic. Meanwhile, a corner sweetens with
bits
of molten sugar scrubs. And the sink froths
with
cleansers milked from wild seaberries. I take my time, read
aloud
the product labels while you spritz along your neck,
honeysuckle
extracts, jojoba hearts, muddled sprigs
of
lavender. And it takes just a moment to realize,
within
this cube of plush confine, that all but one
are
welcome here –age, the tick of time,
the
climb of years, their ultimate, all-consuming fears.