Winter 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1992 |

The Bath

Only the sound of you     splashing while I shift           from foot to foot in the cold kitchen where the windows     have frosted so I can't see out.           I pull the string overhead and light floods the cold, hard surfaces     each time, too bright.           You are taking one of your famous baths, as you do     when you are tired or cold           or uneasy in the night. Newly washed, your red hair, your red hair     sings to me           through the closed door and the steam which seeps out     under it.           I know it is late but your hair is not tired. And though I am very     cold, I am happy           being sung to. Soon, but not yet,     I will walk into the bathroom,           sit down on the blue toilet seat and ask you something.    

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