I'm painting the bathroom.
He chose red.
I should be studying,
but instead,
on pine bead-board, oak
cabinet,
I've been spreading thick
deep red.

I stand on the bathtub edge
to get at the stiles
that run up the cupboard,
rails that cross next to the ceiling,
rosettes for the corners.
I run my paint brush
down curved channels,
lay soft bristles over ridges,
follow the lines he drew up.

Red gets in my eyes.
It washes down porcelain
fixtures, seeps into vertical
wainscot joints
and pools in tiny clots
on the new wood floor.

I clean it up with rags and
razor blades
but faint traces of red remain,
and later I see thick
red drips,
hangers, he calls them,
dried on the perfect grooves
of his eye-level stiles.

Red pendants.
They rest on smooth contours
of plinth blocks
he cut, planed and sanded,
installed at the base
of the cupboard.

Red jewels.
Deep red.
Fresh blood, ripe fruit.
Hangers dancing in
afternoon sunlight
streaming through the window
falling on a work of art,
a double work of art,
and I go back to my books,
satisfied.