Sylvia | poem
Sylvia
She loved to dance.
And burn the toast when I was already
late for work.
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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.
