The sky, a plate
in kindly blue,
smooth
as the ceramic face
of this, my swimming pool;
the bobbing palm
glazing the back
of my starfish shape
like white liquid icing;
sweet, the water’s after-taste;
gently
pungent smell lodged
in the nape of my neck
I will wash the blue
off my skin, in a tiled doll-box
cubicle
the smell will fade
out of my fizzled wet-strung hair
just as sugar dissipates
into the hot
nothingness of drinks.
I will pretend to forget,
then forget
I was offered a plate
in a summery shade, bordered by
tree branches
I was in that half
amniotic vessel –
weightless
as a seed pearl in
an ocean or a lover
exhaling in the depths
of a kiss;
a posy of
air on liquid.