No more showers,
no more soaking in the tub alone:
bath-time these days means visiting nurse.
Sometimes, the young blonde therapist comes.
Sometimes, it’s the stern-faced older woman
who was a surely a prison commandant in a previous life.
The blonde guides him gently so he feels as if
he’s doing some of his movements himself at least.
But the warden grabs his fragile body by the shoulders,
dunks him in the hot water.
Both scrub his body, bald head to foot,
and he dreams when the former goes to work
on his limbs, throat, neck, chest, even his genitals.
But when the latter gets at his body,
it feels more like a flailing as she whips his skin
to unwanted attention with the bristles of her brush.
Both towel him down, then help him into the wheelchair.
The blonde smiles as she does it.
The older woman is more concerned with the watch on her wrist,
doesn’t want to be late for her next patient.
The blonde reminds him of his youth,
his wife, even though she was brunette.
They share a softness in voice and touch.
On the other hand, the older woman
is all the nuns at Catholic school, his mother-in-law,
in fact, every look of contempt and disdain
that came his way.
The object is the same – get him clean – but not the practitioners.
One is a spirit.
One is an executioner.
One assists him into more and more living.
One puts his head on a block.
