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Bath Time

Brightly colored cups floated
on the surface like hungry
open-mouthed piranhas.
Brown and orange wash cloths-
saturated with tepid water,
gracefully danced like sea weed.
Sometimes, they would creep
across the porcelain tub as
though they were starfish
on the ocean floor.
Pinwheels spun with handfuls
of water, creating magnificent
waterfalls, streams and pools.

We sat together- splashing.
Innocence reigned. We lacked all shame.
Soap was a toy- a giant crayon.
With which I drew butterflies.
Their delicate wings like
lacy flower petals.
He colored and scribbled-
"airpwanes," he said.

Water cascaded over the edge
and collected in the shaggy rug,
leaving it soggy and soaked.
Sometimes, water trickled
down the wall, and through
a seam in the ceiling- waterlogged.
The giggles and faces lasted
until at last- pruned.
Our skin wrinkled, resembling
a well-preserved fig.
But never before the bathwater
caught a chill. Shiver.

Learn more about this author, Anease Lacaze.
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