Sylvia | poem




She loved to dance.

And burn the toast when I was already

late for work.



She would drop

vanilla perfume on her shoulders.

She would never wear the pearls I bought her.

They were for special times.


She grew lilies in the backyard.

Her fingernails were always lined with

dirt. Dirty hands that she rubs

all over my face.


She kissed in bed and read books and ate crackers.

She made a mess.


She would never whistle at night.

She’d read somewhere that

whistling at night

disturbs the dead.


She loved to dance

alone, with me in the living room.

We scuffed our socks across the carpet and she

shocked me.


She rode her bicycle at night when

the night was quiet.


Her musical tune disturbs

the dead.