Morning, and a chandelier of snow hangs heavy
over the tin of Jack’s barn.
He leans into the doorway, watching his house.
From here, he can see the chimney spew
the gray enthusiasm of a fresh fire.
Inside, she is pressing double handed
into the white bowl on the table.
Her hands squeeze,
knead and press,
into the soft dough.
He imagines it is the same softness
as his fist feels on her face
His hands squeeze,
her hands press,
as useless as butterflies
against his chest
He can see the frailness of her bent profile
and for a moment he longs
to touch her fragility
But in another moment he is angry
It is so like her to expose
herself in the window
He believes she cannot be happy
He believes she is lusting for other men
He believes she made him slice
the once perfect arch of brow
above her once trusting eyes.
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