Ana Derby

I bathe you in the green river among the trout and all that floating debris. I try to wash it off of you, but the leaves keep catching, catching in your soggy hair. I wait for every sign of nightfall. The water will be cooler then. I wait. Like I used to wait for your breath in the bathtub. I used to lie awake with you as we waited for the Big Dipper to rise over that brown urban sky, but our plot of land was smaller than you wanted, so I'm not sure it ever even came. I still waited for hours, like a clothing hanger in the oak closet on the second floor of Angeloni. In Italy. In the hills. Don't you remember? I made you run with me, I was scared of my body. (I didn’t think about yours.) We ran behind the cinghiale, rustling against the Queen Anne’s lace, those brutes. Wild boars. The lot of us. But I waited, though the sky was polluted, and I will always wait for your english dresses and those clamorous entrances. I'll even wait for the telltale hum of your toothbrush. Get as old as you like, but never forget the way I waited on those white stucco steps, stippling my thighs, wondering about you. I have waited, petrified, like a tree. I can't help but turn to the cards now, gamble you away. 

I am waiting for a Tuesday that will never come. You are spilling milk across the table. I understand, 

you are young. I'm still waiting for you to grow up.