the bathtub full of steam and old soap and that single pubic hair
full of me. my legs and breasts full of milk. crying midnight baths
become ritual: father, i have sinned. full of sin.
a cup full of wine. pressed to my lips, the back of my hand,
even i can see the poignancy of my own hand, aging and alone.
i start crying for my husband, and by the time the puddles are
at my feet and the tub is loudly belching the last of the water,
i am crying for children that no one loves. children left to weep.
i cannot stand those children, their voices cry out to me as if my
ears are pressed to God. more than my own pain, it is theirs that
haunts. i believe if i could find my way into the baby's bedroom,
in the dark, and pull that tender sweaty tear soaked body from the
crib or the bed, and hold that child to my chest and tell them i love you,
i love you, i love you, everything is ok
you are not alone
- i would heal myself.