with the warmth of water and Dawn.
I scrubbed with a dull rag
until the water became murky
with settled scraps of dinner. He dried
lazily and stacked his grandmother's plates,
eroded with time, like the splintery cottage cabinets.
As he waited for more work,
his square piano hands played
around my waist and his breath
hit the back of my neck, singing
Tupelo Honey. And when I caught
his eyes, I saw the boy that was
and the grandfather
that might be in there, someday.
And I though, this is something steady,
trying on this old married life
to see if the hemlines hit the right places.
I think we are ready, poised
on the edge of our life. But the edge
of a knife struck me first,
melting into the pad of my thumb.
In my confusion he disappeared. And I don't know
if he continued to dry as I bled—it was his mother
who came and cooed over me, bandaged my wound.
And I sat like a child in the window seat
trying to hold back fear and willing
my blood to clot faster.
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