The week my father dies, I give him a bath

in the garden tub. We bought one with jets

to console his back, but the well water rusted

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their circles shut, stained the edges and dirtied

this small sanctuary. Even new, the jets

couldn’t touch the deep hurt of his body,

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crushed disks, fused spine. This form

of helping I thought would last. His small voice

from the bathroom tells me he needs me

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so I come with the plastic Cleveland cup

from the kitchen to dip into the bathwater.

His arms touch both sides of the wide tub.

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The goosebumps on his back, cool water,

asking me how long he has been sitting here.

We both pretend the water’s film covers more

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than it does when I break the surface

with the cup, ready to rinse the unlathered soap

from the crook of his back he couldn’t reach.