Green Inside the Door

Ths summer we lived halfway underground we watched legs scissor past, until the damp grass grew to fill our window -- wavering, translucent with green light. Between snarled gibes about some guy you'd kissed, how poor we were, the rain, we sat on the couch silently and stared into the wettest spring I've ever seen. Warm water seeped through the walls and drenched the carpet. We pulled it up and found another world had thrived in darkness beneath our feet. It spread. Exquisite variants of green ran riot, dappling the walls with almost turquoise spores. On top of them, starbursts of black-green blossomed, blackened utter black -- as if mortality crept in each night and pressed black kisses on the paint. We scrubbed, waited a night, and they returned. In bed, not touching, we dreamed they covered us. At last, we stripped the whole place empty, tossed shoes, chairs, and knickknacks on the lawn. Our yelling frightened the neighbors and, hell, it scared us too. Our red hands smoldered underneath harsh soap. We fought, and scrubbed possessions till they broke against the bristles. We left wet shattered things out drying in the sun, returned to almost barren rooms that reeked of bleach, and slept still holding hands, raw burning hands that we would not let go. Some books, some chairs, some knickknacks all survived, and so did we, my love, but separately.