Vestige

Vestige

My mother’s spine in the garden 
traced through the rose thorns, 
pointed us to the pool.

She counted— two, four, six, eight— 
arms and legs, stopping when the count proved true, 
knew the crush of bodies hitting water.

She attended her roses, 
one eye on her buds, 
the other on her drifting petals.

Before the chlorine dulled 
our skin  to chalk, 
she called us out.

She watched the way 
we rubbed ourselves 
dry on the towels,

then collected them, 
placing them 
over the shroud of thorns.

Hours later 
after the roses hardened 
and the towels turned bone

did she risk 
the buds to vase and water, 
the cotton to the wash.