Bathtime

Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop

with the sweep of an arm,

the splash

of a foot.

Punctuated with little girl voices:

"Pretend we're princesses,"

"Pretend we're getting married."

Mounds of luminous bubbles

pile high on their heads--

delicate, ephemeral crowns.

Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop,

the soft crisp sound

of their imaginary taffeta skirts.

"Pretend we're sea monsters."

A sparkling, bloodless massacre

of hundreds of fleeting bubbles, popping.