Last Bath

It hasn’t happened yet: the awkward bloom
of my children’s bodies, the bathroom pin-lock
pushed in, the steady stream of marathon showers,
bolts of thick steam all shadowy blue.
They’re still here, together, the two of them
like seal pups in a porcelain tub as it brims
with bubbles, rubber fish, spongy green letters
speckled with mold. How long till toy ships
are docked and moored? It hasn’t happened yet,
but just yesterday my daughter asked for privacy
before brushing her teeth, of all things —
that delicate word out there, on her lips,
like new fruit. I almost laughed but nodded instead.
The white door before me: The knob. The click.