I Have Known You in Your Afterlife

Resting my knees on the red floor, I lift
my head toward the tree, hands welded
together, fingers painted shut. My eyes, once
yours and singing, hold the air breathless. Outside
I fear, wings beating and beating, pulling me
farther into the warmth of Decembers
by the fire, a blanket worn majestically
across our shoulders, steam rising
from our tea with healing and a trumpet solo.

In this spot, knees on red, I first kissed you, the dust
from your lips drying the rain from the air,
streetlights black like your hair, smiling behind
curtained windows. Years before, or days,
you held flowers in your hands, and I moved
them gently to your hair, melting colors into silk and curls.
We were sixteen. My face didn't hold color,
and you thought I was ill. The doctor said nothing into
the clipboard, eyes saying even less as he turned
page after page, and back to the first.

The painters came at four and white
nauseated me until I cried. You stood, sweeping.
You didn't look at me until three days later
as we stood under the marquee, your cheeks charcoaled
with tears, and I didn't know why. I never knew why.
You stood with your hands at your side, and I
lifted mine to the reflected yellow sky. Without
moving my eyes, I looked into yours, my mouth shouting
into the abyss, the miles that separated us.

I walked down the street to your house, a pair of doves
in my hand, petals scattering behind me like the kaleidoscopic
tunnel into a lonely basement, water tip-toeing through
the windows and down the walls. It was there that I stabbed
you four times. You didn't ask why. I painted you a picture
of your screams, and you smiled without wonder.

Still I wait to die. You, dressed in a canary dress,
hold my hand, your own not cold, but cooling mine. I look
down, like I have for years, when I speak. You shoes
like daisies hanging in their place, the tree and a picture frame,
compliment the grass, warm and smiling. I touch your cheek
and feel my heart stop swirling as I drown.

When did you come, you would always ask. When and from
what. Your voice coated the words with burgundy
lace; I choked for answers. It was times like those
that I remembered taking you flowers. And like
a twelve year old seeing a naked woman for the first time,
I hugged my eyes with my fingers, choking
the light from outside the moon's grasping arms. I touched you
with my small finger, your lips trembling, not knowing what it was for.
I don't remember if you laughed or struggled for breath
as my hands wrapped around you. You held flowers
in porcelain hands, painted for the new year, and I slipped them
like cool air into mine before they fell to our feet. Blood

dripped from the thorn, and I lifted my thumb to your forehead, hiding
your tears behind a red mask, holding together the falling apart

of August nights. Headlights spilt down the road
and over us as we slept together on the pavement,
you in your canary dress and I alone.