Poison

After the thrill of the hunt
you are still here -
churning me up inside,
making me into something
like a river
or a catastrophe.
I can almost see you
standing there on the porch
in the half-light
of naked wood and nails,
smoking your cigarette -
dressed up like a riddle.

What did you call me again?
Something that rhymed
with Brian or David
that you could only pronounce
with your mouth full.
I let you wear your boots
to bed.
I let you lie
about your age
and your husband,
and the fact that the library
wanted you for murder.

But you just moved
through my room
wearing my shirt and sweater
like you knew
someone was missing -
like the socks and sheets
in the laundry basket
would follow you home.

You said I made you understand
That poetry did not have to hurt.

And you let me believe
that poison
could cure anything.