Terrified he will fall sleep and not wake up,
she treats her father like a Christmas ornament—fragile,
afraid to shatter him. His skin is whiter than
the whites of his eyes. She bathes him in her Jacuzzi tub,
lifts him onto a towel and into his chair,
dries the creases of his buttocks, hips, knees,
beneath his arms, then tries to dry his hair.
He slaps her comb away and it clatters on the bathroom tile.

A comb is a harp, he says, strummed by the glance
of a little girl born dumb. How his mind wanders,
refuses calm. Spittle foams at the corners
of his mouth. She wipes his lips clean. Retrieves
her comb. Finishes his hair. Whispers, Only I can
see you. Once more, wipes her father clean.