Something coarse and
exhilarative happens in the
womb of a bath towel. My
whole existence narrows
to the safety of life’s most
supervisory hands. My hair is dried:
a world is created.
So I create the world for
him, one hand on either side
of his head,
all vigour and love,
reassuring him
that I will reappear, just as soon
as I take the towel away.
