Daughter, fourteen, and every weekday morning
soap-scummed strands of long, copper hair gum
the drain. Five-minute showers for the rest of us.
Mucky water mauls our ankles. Saturday,
I forgo yoga to auger the pipe. A satisfying grind
for a bustling fixer of fixable things.
She wakes late. Mussy. Dragging.
Even so, the dog leaps to greet her. Tumbleweeds
of shepherd hair bound behind him.
They two-step through the kitchen. He, tippy
on hind legs—adolescent, as gawky as she,
tongues her sleep-crusted face, last night’s
surreptitious, post-dance tears. Her bare feet
evade his huge, thick-clawed paws, racketing
like hailstones, gouging my lacquered floors.
I stand by, armed with broom, breakfast, advice
on shared-bathroom etiquette. Pounce when
they pause and my opening arrives. Slow down.
Clean up. Talk. Please. Help. She outstares me
through messy bun tresses—so witheringly
cool even the dog retreats. She stabs a runny yolk.
Eats and eats. I tiptoe about. Eventually breathe
when she lets me slip behind to boar-bristle-
brush her lustrous, changeling hair.
