Victoria Glidden
The bath is warm. This makes the girls happy.
They sputter and shriek as the soap works through their grime and grit.
Into their pores. Their tangles. Their toes.
The windows are open. Bugs flit and crash against the screen.
The whole bathroom is blue.
Pale blue walls, a muted blue sink, a plush blue toilet lid cover,
a matching muted blue tub.
The sun dives over the mobile hanging in the window.
Three fish hang from its strings.
Each woven together by strips of greenish straw.
Cat food litters the cloth mat in the corner.
It covers the needlework fish skeleton.
Ants crawl steadily along the wall’s creamy trim in pursuit of the scent.
They leave microscopic prints in the dust.
The dryer heaves away from the attached laundry room.
Cloth thunking back and forth in a metallic fight.
Mermaids cast in iron stand their posts.
One tucked next to the toilet is big enough to hold the swinging wooden door.
One perches on the windowsill, basking in the light of the warped glass.
One rests on the edge of the tub accompanied by a few shells.
One sits mighty within the shelves crowded with chemicals, combs, towels, and bandaids.
A woman sits on the floor.
Her sleeves are rolled up tight on her elbows.
Her pants are wet in both knees.
She tries to listen to the birds.
The girls are still so young
that being naked feels just as natural as being clothed.
Their hair curls atop their soapy heads.
One jet black, the other woody brown.
Foam letters, rubber ducks, and a few sea animals float around them in the soup.
The older of the pair, Jane Elizabeth,
cannot resist the urge to shove the soft foam in her mouth.
Her teeth hurt.
They are still ripping through her gums in some places.
The woman’s quick hand dashes over to remove the soggy toy from her maw.
The woman is not her mother, though she comes close.
Jane accepts the loss quickly.
The girls splash.
Water floods over the wall of the porcelain womb.
It seeps down under the cheap laminate flooring towards the basement.
The girls babble and squawk.
They fumble over their words.
It doesn’t matter.
The woman massages her temples.
She points and flexes her toes.
Her nail polish is severely chipped.
Veins sneaking across her feet
bring to mind the topographical maps her brother always loved.
“Do you believe in Jesus?” Jane asks.
She’s cupping her tiny hands full of water,
raising them above her head and letting the meager droplets fall.
The younger girl tries her best to mimic the pattern.
She never seems to get the water above her head.
“Who is Jesus?” she asks.
Water bounces up into her eyes.
The woman gasps.
She drives her daughter the three hours home
over hills and farms and woods.
She talks to her husband that night under the thick comforter.
The house creaks in the wind
as the outside continues creeping in.
She stares up at the tired wooden ceiling.
Sunday morning they drive to church.