Practice
On days like this—when the sun
is hunting cicadas through the grass—
I remember the path
of milky footprints that led to the bathroom
whose door was never locked. There,
four slick bodies danced—
nieces turned tanned faces
to shower's panting, palms clutched
on mother's hips. In those middle years,
I blushed at the hair
on my sister-in-law's thighs
that bowed like offerings, the ribbon
bones that flexed like corsets
and rippled the Himalayas
across her daughters' sides.
(Later, they will thank these frames
slim these muscles firm these bodies
active, but children of such an age
count no blessings.) I never questioned
how my life reflects itself
in my mother's thankful folds,
only turned from her breasts when I sprang
too quickly through her closed door.
When I am forty-eight, my stomach
will burrow into itself, crow's feet
will crawl from my eyes, and I will stand beside my daughter,
beneath the shower, bare as ice.