The shower

I got you in the shower,
lathering your huddled
body, soaping, washing
your private parts, in a

hiss of steam, as if the
snake of grief raised
hooded head to strike;
and you wept, while

I washed; not knowing
what else could be
done but to clean the
physical, as the mental

grew in stinking mould,
and the heart hollowed
in your distress and fear;
so did the daughter play

attendant on this tragic
piece of theatre, of
life in all of its cruel
being- as if mere soap

and flannel, could
wash away what was;
remove the awful and
looming reality, that

you were alone, and
there was no-one else
to take his place, to
hold you up; and the

arms of a child, while
willing, would always
be too frightened frail
to soothe the pain.

So, I washed, at all that
you were and all he had
known, achieving little
but baptismal flesh.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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