She is wet lace,
slung over the shower head;
The victim of domestic abuse—
a twelve yard bundle.
Her eyes fix on the bath drain,
like a fish murmuring memoirs
over a frozen bed of sno-cone slush.
In my mouth,
she is cotton balls
soaked in cherry medicine.
The kind your mother measures
in tall narrow plastic instruments.
As my temperature rises,
her beauty is vaporized
and exhaled onto the humid stucco walls.
There, her image is prostrated,
bowing in shallow colorful drips
to flow through the filthy grout valleys
of the white ceramic tile floor.
We walk outside in memory
and pour cow’s milk
on the Summer’s heated pavement;
Exercise our laughter—
playing ice cream truck jingles loudly through our megaphones.
The children come running,
naked in sandals,
and we shoot them with our water pistols—
laughing maniacally as though we are the super villains
telling our murderous plot to the dying hero.
The letters on their capes are zeros.
I will be sitting here quietly,
squeezing my lemonade
over your bleeding nose.
Please breathe only though your mouth
until the experiment is complete
and we restore your equilibrium,
bringing your chair to an upright position.