Morning After Glory

At 8am, the morning glories

drape themselves over the rails

and open.

*

They sprawl, luxurious, almost embarrassingly

intimate, parted thighs in tight skirts, sentinels

of the porch light, unashamed and lovely.

We pose with them before we go. Turquoise fishnet

against a purple rich enough to make a king blush, pursed red lips

and hollowed cheeks.

By the time we return,

they look like buds again: flaccid, pale, wrinkled,

unassuming, tucking themselves among their spaded leaves,

resting on the vines.

*

We collapse into bed like morning glories,

tucking our richest selves back into something

that better bears the sunshine,

and I wake up with shards

on my tongue. Speechless by a thousand

mirrored cuts, my gums bleeding.

I don't have to ask what you mean

when I hear you moan, "It's everywhere."

You spent the night rubbing your eyes

and now there are clean tracks

through the glitter still clinging

to your cheeks, and your eyes

are red; we sweep the sheets

and vacuum twice,

but every time I put my hand down,

invisible shards spike my palms.

*

You comb your hair

like you’ve got lice,

eye the shampoo,

wishing mass murder could solve this.

In a desperate moment,

I shave my legs for the first time

since high school, watch the drain trap fill

with a nest of regret

that catches the light perfectly.