Below the soft word
is a knife blade waiting
to rise, snip. Don’t mind
me, I don’t want to be in the
way, though every position
taken – gets in the way.
Underneath the surface
of our casual banter, for at least
one week, a hidden malice.
Bursting out in bobbing head,
curled up face, spitting, pointing
finger, thrashing out, feet thumping,
in the middle of the night.
Just days before, the soft word,
Oh, is that pinot for us?
A series of numbers –
can they explain the emotion?
Where a thought used to be
air hangs heavy now.
I remember following in my car,
going a certain numerical speed
on a calendar date, all the numbers
it takes to complete a medical test,
numbers and numbers and more,
I can reduce gravity to a series
of equations, prove its existence
with a theorem, but cannot assess
the gravity of a situation.