The Black Napkin Volume 1 Issue 6 | Page 15

11

One, two

babies in a frigid fixer-upper.

Groceries or the hydro bill?

Cold war in the kitchen.

Battles in the bedroom.

Shattered looking glass.

Pull the shards from your head.

Alice doesn’t live here anymore.

Six o’clock

and home for dinner.

Cooking cod for Friday.

Forgot to salt the fish.

Stupid cow. How many times…

Punch holes

in the wall

and me,

I made my bed.

One day

never comes

and the kids leave home at seventeen.

That wrist he snapped two years ago

aches still when it’s cold.

Listen to the news.

Mayday.

Maylay MH17 disintegrates on impact.

Confetti—

crimson—

dyes shamrock grass and daisies,

buttercups and monarch butterflies,

children chasing collie dogs—

carves an open wound

oozing pock mark in the earth.