The children watch the water, laugh as it creeps
towards their toes. we wither into the tub.
cold enamel presses against my shoulder.
a brush of hair sweeps my side, petals against my skin.
giggles merge with dripping water. my youngest squishes
my belly, asking for “low tide”, a game we play.
my oldest asks questions, the youngest waits for answers.

Our six legs tangle, roots.
water clings to our skin, listening to the conversation.
they will soon outgrow these bath-times, like flowers
my small women,
too big for their pot. they absorb water and words.
a hope they outgrow me.