She slices the vegetables
With sharp, harsh strokes,
Each blow a snap against
The cutting board,
As if she is thinking
She is slicing something else,
A cool spring morning
Turning to a bitter chill
Inside, and I don’t know why.
I’m too scared to ask
What might be wrong,
Or to divert her attention
From each stroke, fearing
She might slice off her finger
Or mine, by accident,
Or something else on purpose,
Her gaze focused downward
Though she seems not to see
The vegetables she is cutting,
And I think she’s enraged at me,
Something I said or worse
Something I should have said,
Or accomplished, some gift
Of life I should have provided,
Yet in my ignorance have not,
Snap goes each piece
Of this breakfast puzzle,
A jig saw being dismantled
So might never get to see
The big picture
After all.
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