he liked painting his slim, brittle
fingernails a marmalade cider tinge
and his shattered toenails chalky clear
while licking the pit of a lychee and
dipping me into his cupped hands
skinning my shell wet legs in pollen
of a black calla lily with the brush of
his nail polish as his grandfather's radio quivered the strain of my contaminated soul
that he hid in that flower's anther
