Holiday

in the kitchen, the dishes need to be washed.

you trudge upstairs, the victim of
too many words swallowed with
the bitter neon green of lime
juiced by your expert hands

having no talent for cooking, i walk
to the sink. the porcelain white, the
blue chantilly lace, all so quiet in
the thoughts they elicit. i don't pay
attention. only the smooth coldness,
tinged with the skin of tomatoes,
the strands of angel hair, slipping
through my fingers.

bubbles rush out of the sponge (no accompanying
bell of champagne glasses), roll in the water. i wipe my hands,
waiting for ordinariness to envelope
my summer skin, like the way the eggplant,
ivory and soft, sank into the
gaps of our conversation.

when i find you, the
room has filled with heat. you
are lying on the floor, your
fingers jagged, tearing
through the heavy air, pretense of
the normality of dishes
piled up. we do not have
that reference, not yet.

i pull you to me, wave away
clouds, like a mother flicking raindrops
off the hair of her son. and you,
like a timid bear, refuse the
sunlight, the stream of cold brume rising
up into the mountains, the dew
on my face.

you lie yourself down, on a pine
bed, not minding the pricks
etching crests not your own into your back
when you sleep, girls appear
around you. alternately they are
the Fates and the Muses
(only three for you
and not kind)
the laughter
in your dreams leaves me only disappointment.

i am in the next room, but
i should be downstairs, or in a
car, driven, driven away.