Our last big fight, why affection
for anyone other than ourselves
withers as we flow toward death.
Lost somewhere, truth about the ragged void
between us, complicated by stony silence,
mostly mine. Whereas, it’s a known fact
to banish rats, use pounded glass
splashed with dry corn meal.
Not enough to apologize — instead,
I offer a saying, boiled walnut bark
can darken eyebrows gone from gray
to white. And so, the day turns bad,
divides itself, bringing sundown closer,
faster, the finish depending on upset
sealing off each heart. Matters not
if a hot iron will soften putty,
unlike anger, easily lift it away.
Contempt pulses, ebbs. Love splits,
often jaggedly, but hardly ever
in half. To repair the ending,
I must first find one small tear.
