The Wellspring: Poems

Bathing the New BornI love with an almost fearful loveto remember the first baths I gave him–our second child, our first son–I laid the little torso alongmy left forearm, nape of the neckin the crook of my elbow, hips nearly assmall as a least tern's hipsagainst my wrist, thigh held looselyin the loop of thumb and forefinger,the sign that means exactly right. I'd soap him,the long, violet, cold feet,the scrotum wrinkled as a waved whelk shellso new it was flexible yet, the chest,the hands, the clavicles, the throat, the gummyfurze of the scalp. When I got him too soapy he'dslide in my grip like an armful of butterednoodles, but I'd hold him not too tight,I felt that I was good for him,I'd tell him about his wonderful bodyand the wonderful soap, and he'd look up at me,one week old, his eyes still wideand apprehensive. I love that timewhen you croon and croon to them, you can seethe calm slowly entering them, you cansense it in your clasping hand,the little spine relaxing againstthe muscle of your forearm, you feel the fearleaving their bodies, he lay in the blueoval plastic baby tub andlooked at me in wonder and began tomove his silky limbs at will in the water.