Blue tile
set in white grout
cools
my bare legs,
each neat square
an island
in want
of a harbor.
Half clothed,
I sit against
white porcelain,
painting my big toe.
She opens the door;
I smile up,
but find only
weary contempt
pasted on her face
as she fishes
for words to say.
I want to look pretty for Daddy.
But red nail polish
pollutes
channels of white grout
on a floor
that’s just been mopped.
An American flag lies
soiled
on the bathroom tile;
toeprints scatter
ribbons of red
from one blue atoll
to the next.
You’d think that she saw
blood.
Just wait until your father comes home.
An empty threat,
I know
what she really meant to say,
is
If.
