‘The Sunbather’ — Heather J. Macpherson Before, I imagined Eakins nude men lounging cliffside, swimming below while I crossed the Hudson River. But today, my friend and I explore Star Island. We gasp at the view as we twist and turn on trail. Black cormorants linger in sea spray, seagulls release their Gothic screech protecting their young ones not ready to fly. We make our way, bare shins battling thickets, our knees scuffed as we climb and crawl over granite made perfect for calloused feet. The sunbather lays on rock with comfort and ease, his knees pointing at the sun and I am struck by this vision. Yes, we watch from boscage and without shame, he sits forward, arms lean back as hands press into rock pushing body upward. I am a grateful witness to this ocean vista; I watched Eakins painting come alive while the Atlantic crashed and spit. He stood. I could see sweat glisten in the ginger nest of his figure. I begged beneath breath for his hand to call.
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