Click the play button below to watch Jared Harél read “Last Bath.”
It hasn’t happened yet: the awkward bloom of my children’s bodies, the bathroom pin-lock pushed in, the steady stream of marathon showers, bolts of thick steam all shadowy blue. They’re still here, together, the two of them like seal pups in a porcelain tub as it brims with bubbles, rubber fish, spongy green letters speckled with mold. How long till toy ships are docked and moored? It hasn’t happened yet, but just yesterday my daughter asked for privacy before brushing her teeth, of all things — that delicate word out there, on her lips, like new fruit. I almost laughed but nodded instead. The white door before me: The knob. The click.
