Three Eves Walk Into A Hamam


Three Eves sit and scrub. Grabbing black soap from a communal tub, they pull and rub.  Sins of the past fall from their long tangled hair. Anxiety from the sweet crease between limbs eased and repaired. Rough runs of the glove scratching over knobbed pride, contorted, hidden, and messily twined. Lives of judgement and condemnation engraved in skin heavy and lined. Startled touches of finger to skin, fleeting but persistent, reminding each other they’re amongst kin. Each woman eternally torn, the oppressive heat pressing raw against fragile womanhood socially scorned.  Each woman laid bare, the acceptance and love of the Hamam allowing each to try to be free of care.

Three Eves redress. Imperfect skin smooth and fresh. Misperceptions and tales of old lay in piles on the floor, blocking their exit to the door.  Reluctantly they grab onto their respective archetype, a reoccurrence garnering little to no hype. One pulls on mischief like a coat, seduction, flirtation coiled around her burdened throat. She laces her bra through with lust, it smells of musk, a smell she hates but also loves. She lines her lips with temptation and turns to leave, goodbyes are hard and she desires quick retreat. Her stone skin cracks as she steps into the sun, the weight of the world glaring, blinding, eager to shun. The second tucks the entity of her body into a veil, pure, white, unstained of the first’s sinful fail. But confined by space, not necessarily time, a fault of an insecure society jailing a whole gender for a made-up crime. She stands up straight and turns to the last. Warbling and awkward the third rewraps her vines, concealing body parts the original man claimed as “mine”. The second Eve goes to aid, knitting the third’s hair in a quick braid. She presses her cheek against the thirds in an anxious kiss, knowing her femininity identity crisis burdens her bliss. Nothing is wrong or so it seems, she just is objectified, muted, and always unseen. Equal when created from the rib of Adam? Saved by the all-encompassing sacrifice of a loving lamb? Not quite so, as schools of thought still find a way to blame and poke, play and fight over the actions of Eve’s unfortunate plight. But forgetting all that they step out into the light, their eternal friendship a riveting sight.

Three Eves walk back through their tomb. Already they feel the weight of the world despite their communal, loving groom. A faded garden once lush and green, now a sepia reworking into their skin to mark them unclean. The dying forestry full of the world’s judgement and stares, unrelenting and hateful of women everywhere. One walks to the West, a timeless beast, shaggy fur overgrown with standards set in dreams of societies’ least. One walks to the East, less harsh in their recounting of her tale around family feasts. The last walks back to him, his rib returned silent and prim.


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