Bath Tiles

In my fourth year I pressed my

slipping child’s back

to the  tiles of our bathroom,

baby pink

as my baby mind.

Before bathtime,

a spoonful of honey.

A silver spoon full of honey,

an amber lake

mirroring the bath tiles –

bath tiles, encapsulated,

waiting to be ingested whole and cold.

Pink tiles and

baby-pink mind

floated up and about,

into the steam of bath dreams,

up and into my fishtail spine,

dew-dropped,

pressed cold against baby-pink tiles.

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