Sponge Bath
Draped in towels,
my grandmother sits in a hard-backed
chair, a white bowl
of soapy water on the floor.
She lifts her frail arm, then rests it,
gratefully, in her daughter’s palm.
Gliding a wet
washcloth, my mother’s hand
becomes a cloud, and every bruise, a rain-
drenched flower.
Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2011 by Terri Kirby Erickson from her most recent book of poems, In the Palms of Angels, Press 53, 2011. Poem reprinted by permission of Terri Kirby Erickson and the publisher.