Mama Takes a Bubble Bath

Mama Takes a Bubble Bath

 

 

Here, wedge of water

slim parcel of time

her body traced by clouds

clotting and pulling apart,

a world adrift.

The porcelain suggests

that she lean back,

but how long her legs reach

this body of birth filling

every space water wants.

 

Mold in the cracks.

Smudges on eyeglasses.

A three-poem soak. Never enough,

or perfect. Here she rubs,

softens herself – pumice to heal,

cloth to nape – as if tuning

an instrument for what song

is expected next.

 

The children come,

stand at the edge,

thousands of tiny bubble explosions

the moment’s metronome,

and try to comprehend

how she is not

on their side.

Published in VoiceCatcher 3. So true today.