We were the hardwood floor. Cold squeaks,
outstretched panther palm, red hand,
expected the chlorine. Wax splashed
baby oil eyes and it is citrus– cinnamon, acidic.
Where we were wanted, the pitchfork path
and jagged rim,
this fungus crust metastasis, you twirl
and twirl your index finger until it leaves.
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review)