Three poems by Marion McCready
Degas’ The Tub for Vicki Feaver It’s the way she lies abandoned, Jezebel, to her liquid bronze bath; hair dripping over the lip of the tub, as if recovering from a marathon or from giving birth. Like the post-natal bath I had in the shock-white hospital – blood streaking the water, even the gleaming metal taps. Her slim body bathes … Continue reading Three poems by Marion McCready