Unmaking

 

 

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.