ritual

I sit in a summer tub and remember

baths shared with my mother,

how she plugged the overflow leak,

washcloth wrapped terry-turban,

around the face of the steel drain,

the feel of her long, lean, unshaven legs

pricking my smooth pink underbelly,

the bitter-clean taste of no-tear shampoo

and the simple metallic brine of a baptism

in hard water.

Tess Kincaid
August, 2010

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