Of course, time is kinder
where you are: it takes
half an echo
to circumscribe glass
with freshwater, the living room
concave and retreating
as if in humiliation. On days
when the sun does not ignite
your skin of orange taffeta,
sequinned by effervescence,
do you keep any records of
where you belong? The room
whited out and flowered
like a bride, the erstwhile
bride not aware of a new girl
dipping her palm in your ocean
like a cautious visitor, then
turning to rebutton
your owner’s creased shirt.
This all happens in the gentle
heartbeat of an afternoon,
an invisible swish of fins.
When your owner returns
with the more familiar,
older woman, you make sure
to pirouette a little faster,
orchestrated spurts of vermillion
to remind him
what now hides in water
is a palmful of fire.