Toxicity

The dust in the air is visible from the slivers of light shining from the glass knob
on the door to your room. You sit quietly, facing those double doors
leading out to the front yard, thinking.
What do you think about? Is it your noxious perfume,
subterranean mushrooms puffing clouds of toxic gas?
Is it the smoke from the bread burning in the oven,
or the fumes from your stale menthol cigarette?
My stomach turns when you touch me,
As if your hands are dipped in arsenic.
You think you’ve provided,
that you’ve created a peaceful stillness,
and that I’m happy to fix your imperfections.
My mind is bare when I look at you—
Only the fish in the bare and grime-covered tank and I know
that we’re being poisoned.