This is not my grandmother’s
bathroom with the huge tub,
large enough to hold several grandchildren–
a porcelain ship with feet–
the bathroom with its huge tub
where I would stare at the angel on the wall
from inside a porcelain ship with feet,
hoping to grow wings.
I would stare at the angel on the wall,
thinking about my mother–
hoping to grow wings
in my hiding place, alone.
I’m thinking about my mother’s
bathroom, where I would sit
in my hiding place alone,
by myself–watching Cupid’s face
on the bathroom wall, where I would retreat,
away from my parents and brothers,
by myself, watching Cupid’s face
until they pounded on the door.
I hid away from my parents and brothers
and then I hid away from my children
(until they pounded on the door)–
and now I have my very own bathroom,
away from my children–
still my arms remain large enough to hold them.
I have my very own bathroom now–
but I always remember my grandmother’s.
Mish at dVerse asked us to write a poem about a meaningful object starting with “This is not a __”. I changed the “a” to “my”, and wrote a sort-of pantoum.
I don’t have much from my grandmother, but this photo traveled from her bathroom, to my mother’s, to mine.
the magic of mirrors…