Water Lilies in the Kitchen

Three years ago, you gave us bread.

We strapped posts against the tree so that it might

grow up straight, and strong. Each time that moon

bent we burnt the money in our pockets, saw how

the months form a pale and costly fire.

Three years ago, you lost your hair. You said this

did not trouble you, that it had simply found a new

lover. Your pale scalp showed me your meaning.

Three years fell back like fireflies, with holding

tongues and light in our eyes. Three years burned

fortunes, but you would not feel their warmth. In

the kitchen we watched sunsets blaze, waiting for

the wallpaper to catch, for the water lilies to alter,

rot, turn to stone, for the light to change her mind

—anything.

Three years we waited. You said you loved us, that

some things last forever. The months pummeled.

The years refilled. Time, you said, was like

well water.

Three years, and our eyes are suspended in the

stuff. Not right now, you said. Not just yet.

In the kitchen, the table is clear. Each sunset

lasts a second. Our tree is straight, and strong.

It’s like you said.

Dillon Cranston is a medium-sized male, a single Sagittarius, enjoys long walks on the beach and drinking virgin daiquiris.