My sons perch like twin birds on the edge of the tub, watching me pee. “Mom, why don’t gorillas have tails? What happens when you die? Can we have bunk beds? Can we be this age forever?” Eyes still closed, I undress, step into the shower, wake myself with a blast of cold water. “Mom. Why don’t you have a penis? I want oatmeal. I’m never brushing my teeth ever again. Watch this!” There is silence. I rinse shampoo from my eyes. They begin to fight over who can brush my dripping hair, who can kiss my wrinkled fingers first.
Amanda Roth's work appears in Hayden's Ferry Review, Portland Review, Kissing Dynamite, and elsewhere. She lives with her family in Central Texas. msha.ke/amandarothpoetry