Trying to Get Through

I make a knife of words. I sit here waiting. I play with crumbs. Her eyes that should look straight at me are toward the window, glazed— husband’s horizon? Not armored. Only armed with pots and pans. Not out of arm’s reach, beyond curtains of doorbells, garden gates. She puts up ironwork in her eyes; it draws a bolt over what’s real— then looks at me. I wish I’d brought my saw.