Goodison


 SHE WALKS INTO ROOMS



She walks into rooms
and they run for towels
say "girl, dry yourself."
And she says no, it's only light
playing upon my water-wave taffetta
dress
But her host put his hand to her face
and it came away wet.
Sometimes at nights
she has to change the sheets,
her favourite brown roses
on a lavender trellis
grow sodden
and that water has salt
in it
and that's no good for roses.
He left her all this water
to hold in the purple throat
of a flower
it overflowed onto the floors
and her silver shoes sailed
like moon-boats in it.
The water took all the curl
from her hair
It runs slick to her shoulders
where his hands spread
tributaries of rivers.


Lorna Goodison