The tiles in my bathroom

The tiles in my bathroom are marble; veined and cold:

The charcoal veins, the creamy stone; like skin gone tough and old.

A smooth redecoration, your choices in the tile,

I didn’t care, I didn’t choose; I only chose your smile.

 

It mattered to you somehow, this surface chic and shell:

It mattered what they thought although they didn’t know you well.

We’ll cover it with marble, then maybe they won’t see,

We are their fears, your heart and mine – and you chose that, chose me.

 

They all came to your funeral,

like pigeons ‘round a dove. 

You’re colder now than that cold wall, the veins not stone, but love.

I batter at the tiles then, with fists and feet and head.

It spills, but it’s not marble now:

It’s red, 

It’s red,

It’s red.