WEBVTT

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This poem is called "Monday."

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"In the blue-tiled
bathroom, my father shaves.

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Above the cold mosaics,
repeating quadrants,

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he stands and sways
before the mirror.

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My sister isn't born yet.

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My mother is asleep.

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The wide legs of my
father's cotton shorts,

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empty as wind socks, the shaving
brush, plump with lather,

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the rectangle of stiff
sponge shredding blue crumbs

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in the sink's hollow, the dental
floss wound round its bobbin.

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My father picks up his
razor and begins to scrape,

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as an anchor of sun
drops down the air shaft

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and touches the mug's
cumuli of lather.

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My father dips his brush again.

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Like a son, I balanced
on the tub's rim

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and watched him and touched my
face as I pass the door again.

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Each morning, washing
the identical face

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I touch now for
luck or warning."

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