A Mother in the Bathroom

Little Girl
Today
I read to you
While you washed in the shower
I read to you
Because the towels make you nervous,
Being alone makes you afraid -

I,
The Great Protector,
My feet on the washer while it buzzes circles
I,
The Great Protector,
Turn each page like the last diamond
I,
The Great Protector,
Wool socks, torn jeans: threadbearing
I,
The Great Protector:

My voice is the exorcism of Shadows.

These hands
That fold this laundry,
That cook these meals,
That dust the staircase,
These hands that pull the curtain closed in the bathroom,
That pull up the bedsheets in the bedroom -

These hands that forget how to write
Forget how to play music
Forget how to draw intricately...
These hands are how you know me
How you understand
They free you.
They free you.

Alternate Dimensions

This morning I woke up to a barrage of photographs from 8 years ago
when you were still together: divorced now
And I think about how nothing is permanent
It is a constant reminder: a photo of you playing bumper cars
And for all the world you look rapturous and joyful as though
This is all you could ever want: one another

Today she is marrying someone else
And you are on a road trip to the ocean with your own new love
And I don't fit into this picture
But I am effected by it
Staring at roaring colors of our two families at an amusement park
My daughter, ten now, two then squealing in delight with your daughter
Ten then, Eighteen now and headed to college in the autumn

I pour black coffee over chocolate almond milk in my Cancer sign white mug from Target
Everything is normal
And digital photographs don't fade.