The Bath

The Bath My mother arrives Letting in briefly the dim Cleveland sun. Her fingers are red-raw. Without listening I know my job And I get the worn pliers Landlord-loaned To turn on the bath. My brother stands Jittery and exposed While the water runs too hot Over his feet. He sits without warning, Used to the pain. He is clean. I put a towel around him. After the water has drained We listen carefully, My brother’s face Gleefully bright. There it is! There is the clucking rasp Of mother’s snore, Measured yet unpredictable sounds. We cling to them In muted joy.