Bathtime

Bathtime

You’re standing knee-deep in water,
pink skin stretched over a churning frame,
reaching, pulling handles until the torrent
is released into the sterile brightness of
the bathroom light, drawn, siphoned,
stolen from the reservoir behind the dam,
laid upon your feet, then scooped, poured over your curls,
ancient drops of rain sent down your back. You smile,
teeth knifing through your gums. You splash,
holler in your proto-language, screech and swoon.
You look into my eyes. I look into yours.
I hear the low murmur of water
sneaking passed the drain.