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Poetry | January 2004

After The Bath

By Bella Mahaya Carter

My five-year-old daughter
slides her fingers
between her thighs
holds her hand out to me and says,
“smell.”
I hesitate,
bring my nose closer to her hand,
take a token sniff.
I recognize that scent.
Her vagina smells like mine.
I am surprised.
I don’t know what I expected,
but I wasn’t prepared for that sweet earthy scent
grounded in base notes.
“It’s weird, Mama,” she says,
scrunching her nose.
“We have our own smell,” I say. “It’s a pretty smell.”
My daughter looks at me,
uncertain.

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