A few hours ago I sat
on my front steps in the blue
haze of the mercury arcs,
and the street, glossy with rain,
was quiet. Back inside, where
my mysterious child talks
in her sleep, I find myself
drawn to the source of pity,
undressing in the shrill glare
thrown by the bathroom light. There
the hopeless drain, the fatal
soapdish and my wet hands
are reflected in the mirror
of the medicine chest, those
islands of possession chilled
by the sure yield of water.
Inches away, my daughter
sleeps, dry and oblivious,
tangled in kindly wool, and,
shaking her crib, almost cries
at the edge of the pipes’ first
explosion. My bare hands lift
her clownie and her moist, patched
animals, for no one’s sake.
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