foot cleansing

Amy Lin

nǎi nai cleaves the silk 
surface of the water 
with her toes curled, 
pale as the half-moon 
where gū mā is waiting 
for her.

as hands slip over her flesh, 
she watches her daughter’s bowed head,
ink fading to silver roots, 
the color fleeing no matter 
how many times she dyes it. 

years ago, when nǎi nai still had fingers
like butter, when she could still catch
darkness with bare skin, 
she had been the one bending 
over gū mā’s swinging legs.

her son had been there too, 
but he had long washed away.

her foot lifts from the bowl, 
and nǎi nai observes the droplets trickling
down her heel. 
they slump beneath the steam, 
each one whispering, 
let me go, let me go.

she starts to feel herself drifting,
but gū mā snags her, 
a rough rag kneading 
into her chest. 

Amy Lin (she/her) is a Chinese American writer from New Jersey. Her work has been recognized by YoungArts and has appeared in Rust & Moth, Open Ceilings, Epistemic Literary, and elsewhere. When she is not writing, you can find her enjoying word puzzles, painting, and eating home-cooked meals.