Poetry: Day Bath

Day Bath
–Debra Spencer
From Pome­gran­ate

for my son

Last night I walked him back and forth,
his small head heavy against my chest,
round eyes watch­ing me in the dark,
his body a sand­bag in my arms.
I longed for sleep but could­n’t bear his crying
so bore him back and forth until the sun rose
and he slept. Now the doors are open,
noon sun­light com­ing in,
and I can see fuch­sias opening.
Now we bathe. I hold him, the soap
makes our skins glide past each other.
I lay him wet on my thighs, his head on my knees,
his feet danc­ing against my chest,
and I rinse him, pour­ing water
from my cupped hand.
No mat­ter how I feel, he’s the same,
eyes expec­tant, mouth ready,
with his fat legs and arms,
his bel­ly, his small sol­id back.
Last night I want­ed noth­ing more
than to get him out of my arms.
Today he fits neatly
along the hol­low my thighs make,
and with his fra­grant skin against mine
I feel brash, like a sunflower.