We sit across a table,
a gloved hand arranging objects
forged out of heat—crystal, china, sliver.
A perfect setting for mind quests, loving jests, secrets confessed.
But the bantering cantor of past conversation
is gone, replaced by the slow gait of
terse politeness and the incessant woodpecking
of your blackberry.
It is a Bride’s bounty.
but I cannot pronounce you husband and life.
Clearly divisible, we are. And the remainder is
a reminder that no promises can be trusted
My eyes scan your face, and in the blank of an eye
You are lost again.
The wine is decanted along with our lives.
The steam rises off the plates and you
become more mirage than man.
The air around us hangs heavy
with the masky dampness of embargoed emotions.
We compete with restraint,
and you tear a piece of your ire
off the loaf of bread, following
the path of yeast resistance.
Your quips are edged weapons,
Sticks and stones that hurt me.
I don’t know what to with my arms.
Limbs that fit together so seamlessly
are now gangly appendages looking for
neutral ground. So I make calligraphic strokes
on the menu’s deckled vellum and remember past caresses.
We are powder kegs lit by candlelight.
The heat is not enough to ignite confidences
Never mind that passion that once invaded our lives
Like Norman mercenaries.
The water goblet leaves a stain on the soft damask embankments;
a Rorschach that I am primed to inspect.
Is this a passing phase of your moon,
an heirloom calling card of renewal,
or an outline’s shard of the end of us?
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