Banya in post-Soviet drear:

slapped up, utilitarian-concrete slabs;

surplus holocaust-proof door -

windowless, cheerless, dispiriting.

Inside,

elderly gent so flesh-stripped that grey

woollen trousers cling

like frightened grandchildren.

Men and women must separate. Don't

like the sound of that.

In the antechamber, undress;

jewellery, in particular, shed; for metal

may severely blister skin - I revoke

my wedding ring, don wool felt hats for protection,

hug water bottle tight for hydration.

Unreel shower scene from Schindler's List.

Myopic-misted,

I navigate two hefty pine doors,

structured somewhat

like those sealed in films to sacrifice or save,

depending on your submariner luck.

Force open door, expose scene from Scheherazade.

Women

Of every age, shape, genetic

inheritance scrubbing, sluicing, showering

in houstonia-blue tiled room.

Women

torrenting tap water

into baby-bath-sized tubs,

upending Persian-blue over sudsy breasts,

steam-darkened hair generously lathering,

dead skin cells

scraping with fingernails.

One elephantine-skinned elder libates

wet-stone bench.

She pours as one might mead or milk

from earthenware jug making figures of eight.

When ritual is replete, carefully

she lowers worn joints to sit.

Thighs and buttocks buddha.

I tight-kneed follow

flushed bottoms belonging to my group.

We stream meticulous, channelling appropriate attitude,

then enter the banya-proper.

Sahara-

slap!

With one hand make a surgeon

mask;

breathe shallow, squint hard.

'Are you ready to be beaten?' our tour leader asks, disturbingly

gleeful.

Step up before you change your mind.

Curl hands compliant over wooden rail.

Prepare to cringe, to whimper, flinch.

Suede-massage-tender instead

as softened leaves shush my startled flesh.

'Relax,'

their tickling twig fingers suggest,

'we

have not forgotten our green selves.'

Mild, astringent scent of forest floor litter

as swished bouquet descends

on shoulders, back, thighs, calves -

unexpectedly,

I begin

to enjoy myself.