Evening Song

When my daughter, straight from her bath,
brings her body to mine
and she has no breasts and she has only
the slightest dip in the straight line that is her
still damp with the equinox,
when she molds her body to mine,
her head under my head, her long rib cage
against my deep breasts, our heartbeats
a processional, then I know
what is in the hands Rodin
sculpted and called Cathedral.

Deborah Bacharach

Floating Bridge Review Summer 2011