Bath. The intimate act.
Refinding the body, tracing the cavities with the sponge,
brushing through each of the skin’s pores.
Tasting the soap. Caressing the wounds.
The pressure of water. That fluid gravity
washing everything away.

An act of care.
The hands that wash you.

Your mother’s hands.

(One day
You shall hope
You will bathe her)

Your body, emerging from within her body
Her body, the image of earth.
Your future.

As her figure evaporates in hot steam
The passing of time
The buzzy silence
The warmth
become palpable.

Her shadow
scratching your back.

However far, however brave
The backbone knows of
its fragility.

To my mum, of course.