She slices the vegetables
With sharp, harsh strokes,
Each blow a snap
Against the cutting board
As if she is slicing something else,
The cool spring morning
Turning the bitterest of cold
And I don’t know why
I’m too scared to ask
What might be wrong
Or divert her attention
Away from each stroke.
She might slice a finger
By accident
Or something else
On purpose,
Her gazed focused downtown
Though not on the breakfast
Vegetable she slices
On something else beyond
Nobody else sees
Except for her,
A vision that enrages her,
At me, at something unsaid,
Or undone, I have not spoken of
Accomplished,
Some gift of life
I should have produced
And yet in my ignorance, have not,
Snap goes each piece
Of this breakfast puzzle,
A jig saw being dismantled
So, I might never see
The big picture
Until after it dies.
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