I ask if I can wash your hair. You say,
"Well sure", and sit down on the edge of the tub.
I sit down next to you. In a state of grace,
you steady yourself and lean, a frame that's still

no more than five foot two, a body that bore
one girl and seven boys. I pour shampoo
above your head with one hand, then with two,
I lather up your hair, and rinse with more

warm water from a shower head. It spills
over your crown, and down your ageless face.
I lay a hand towel on your head, and rub
the silver strands of your hair. You smile the way

you always did with your eyes, and I think how
do roles reverse this fast right here, right now.