by Charlotte Covey

                    our house: black
shutters, white siding. flowers line
          the first floor windows. i find
your suitcase swollen under our bed (just in

case), take your favorite
          shirt, wrap it ’round my waist,
chest, neck. every day
                    you come home, loosen tie, kiss

                    cheek, check pulse. you find
me, bleach to mouth,
knife on.          something. you pour my
          pills in pink cups, water me

along the marigolds. pink
          to my lips, your purpled
eyes on mine– when the cup
                              drops, your storm.