You come with chrysanthemums
through the screen door,
picking them by the pool
after splashing your hand in
chlorine water,
leaving a wet print on the door handle.

The kitchen without light
but for shadow leads you
to another dark room where files
lay strewn next to my body,
my head resting on the recliners leg rest
when you drop the flowers

down on my contracting chest
to take my clinching face
in with quiet laughter.
Kneeling down in the same
breath you undo your hair
and whisper, “they are poisoned.”

Climbing on top of me
the chlorine on the flowers seeps
through our shirts and the scent
fills our noses as we kiss,
but as your hand suddenly slips on a folder
our bumping shoulders push the recliner into the wall

causing a shot glass to fall
off the mantle and crash,
reminding you enough
of the splash
that the scent of chlorine heightens
when you place your palm over your mouth.

01/08/2005

Posted on 01/08/2005
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