Bathing the New Born I love with an almost fearful love to remember the first baths I gave him-- our second child, our first son-- I laid the little torso along my left forearm, nape of the neck in the crook of my elbow, hips nearly as small as a least tern's hips against my wrist, thigh held loosely in the loop of thumb and forefinger, the sign that means exactly right. I'd soap him, the long, violet, cold feet, the scrotum wrinkled as a waved whelk shell so new it was flexible yet, the chest, the hands, the clavicles, the throat, the gummy furze of the scalp. When I got him too soapy he'd slide in my grip like an armful of buttered noodles, but I'd hold him not too tight, I felt that I was good for him, I'd tell him about his wonderful body and the wonderful soap, and he'd look up at me, one week old, his eyes still wide and apprehensive. I love that time when you croon and croon to them, you can see the calm slowly entering them, you can sense it in your clasping hand, the little spine relaxing against the muscle of your forearm, you feel the fear leaving their bodies, he lay in the blue oval plastic baby tub and looked at me in wonder and began to move his silky limbs at will in the water. Excerpted from The Wellspring: Poems by Sharon Olds All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
