crowds the bathroom mirror. Spat toothpaste, a product

of my own disregard, flecks my tender image. Neglect builds

a sullied halo around the tub,

dirt under nail. Not every care-taker

takes care. Even the nurse, how

they would just push the bowels back inside her.

I recoil. How dare. I admonish. And yet,

saddled with my own shit-stained province, I lie

to Jonah, tell him only little boys use diapers.

“You don’t look like a little boy,” I say,

his small reflection absent from the frame.

Unresponsible for his future, I could tell him anything

and still be a nun: his quick wrist, my chiding eye,

I promise a chocolate only heaven will hold.