Sunday Bath

My apologies, son

that we bathe you in this cold water.

I assure you, we tried warming it,

but boiling kettles of water

could not seduce its frigid infancy.

So we wildly scrub your fingers and toes,

dismantle the dirt behind your ears,

all while you breathlessly wail

a simple request to play with bath toys;

which, believe, hurts us not to honor.

My apologies, son

that we bathe you in this cold water,

but our school week emerges,

and like a hungry hawk, it is

bound to swallow us whole.

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4 thoughts on “Sunday Bath”

  1. Your amazing poem made me think of The threads of continuity between a century ago and today… How the concrete reality of struggle then translates into metaphoric challenges of today. Once again a beautiful entry

    Sent from my iPhone

    >

    Like

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