Visiting Hours

I tricked myself into thinking
their generosity was a threat,
their help, interference.
Their aftershave, perfume
on the sofas, in the bed
made me wretch.
The flowers they bought
rotted so quickly in every
weekend’s overwhelming heat.

While  I worked they’d
busybodied through the shed
found insecticide left
by the last tenant, they feared
for the kids. I’d meant
to take it down the tip -
now I’d been told
so I’d forget.
Then when they left I panicked,

ran down the garden
past the three apple trees
those sprays had meant
to protect.  I threw
packets and bottles
in a box. Next weekend
I told them I’d complied,
what next?

They felt sorry for me.
I went and stood
between those suffering
trees – head bent,
wiping my eyes.
Grey leaves curled at me
sent up a haze of tiny moths
I swiped at, smeared
across my sticky face.