I shouldn’t know the underside
of my almost adult daughter’s breasts
but someone had to wash them
and she chose me.
Her own arms were too tangled
in IV lines and bandages
to help
but she chatted while I
prepared the antiseptic soap
placed towels on the shower chair
tested the temperature of the water
which just wouldn’t stay warm enough.
And then I am on my knees
in this unfamiliar hospital bathroom
where so many thousands of others
have washed
and pissed
and shit
and undoubtedly prayed
to the wild gods, the mad gods, the forgotten gods—
any gods who might
take them out of
this fluorescent box.
The gods don’t answer.
They rarely do.
I carefully scrub the arches of her feet
the hollows between her ribs
the soft caves of her arm pits
all the places that should belong
to just her and those
she invites to visit.
I am as gentle as I can be
But her face creases with pain.
I’m sorry, I want to say.
Are you all right,
I want to ask.
But I am silent. Her thoughts,
at least, are hers alone.