Laurel

Laurel

April 24, 1999

Fresh from the tub,

wrapped in a raggedy towel

a round face peaking through

the hole at the top

She shivers,

blonde clumps swing,

drip as she patters over the tiles

leaving a trail of bright prints

Daddy, I'm cold

she stutters

and plants her face

into my stomach

I pick her up like a baby

—

the baby

she used to be

and the one

she will always be

even when she

has babies of her own

I inhale her

clean, wet smell

We rock slowly

in the chair by the fire,

my shirt soaked

the shine of her cheeks

her eyes

her smile nuzzled

close to mine

Nothing else, nothing

no one, no where, but us

here, now

warming each other