The day you are taken out,
I am left at home to take a bath.
I turn the faucet and let the silver
rush my palm, the nanny watching
as the bathtub swells, and deepens.
I do not know of you yet, resting
in the bloom of my mother,
the waves spreading all around you:
so small.
I do not know of Dr. Kilburg,
do not know of her sad mouth saying
No more heartbeat, no more, no more.
The water of the bathtub cups me
like my mother cups herself when
she comes home. She tries to smile
at the pink child in the water,
but the ache will remind her of
will remind her.
Annabel Chosy is a high school student from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her work has been published in The Blueshift Journal, Words Dance Publishing, Crashtest, and Stone Soup. She has also received recognition from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.