It's called "The Daughters."
Gripping and scrubbing his two little daughters,
they squirm, shriek at soap in the eye.
Wring out their own hair with grave wifely hands.
Peek at me, point, while he soaps up and washes their plump
little tight lipped pussies, peers in their ears
and dunks them in hot tile tub, with a brown burnt farm
boy, a shriveled old man, and a student who sings Silent Night.
We waver and float like seaweed, pink flesh in the steamy light.