Ritual
I sit in a summer tub and remember
baths shared with my mother,
how she plugged the overflow leak,
washcloth wrapped terry-turban,
around the face of the steel drain,
the feel of her long, lean, unshaven legs
pricking my smooth pink underbelly,
the bitter-clean taste of no-tear shampoo
and the simple metallic brine of a baptism
in hard water.
Does she know the unique shrine
she occupies in the temple of my memory?
willow, 2010
Posted over on her site Life at Willow Manor
Part of the poetics on "Magpie Tales #28"
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