Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom

La Habra

You're the words in my mouth that turn to ash,

and you're the fiddler while they burn.  And as I rise,

you rise again out of that shell-pink bathtub, drown

the flames in rosy froth, dizzy from the steam,

as it condenses on the checkered tile -- laid seamless

where the floor should meet the wall -- the world

itself no larger than one single hideous room. 

And as for fear itself, it's hunkered down inside your

belly, and I feel it, too, in what they call the pit,

as if it could sprout, or were smooth like avocado,

once the green skin's peeled away, like the paint

in your garage, and the creamy flesh is spread with

mayonnaise, the way it's served in France, a simple

bowl, a spoon.  Do you remember that tall lawyer 

with the gentle eyes, and soft hair at the temples, too-

early grayed, to match the marble of his suit, his silver-

threaded periwinkle tie?  Do you recall, with violence,

how gently he would stoop to brush your cheek, the whiff

of aftershave you breathed, as if you knew that nothing,

from that day, would come so easily again, or ring so true?

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