By Beth Shepherd
Silence settling through the house like the first fall of snow
In the aftermath of slamming doors
Tracing the chipped enamel of the tenth tempest-tossed plate,
Tallying the scratch and scuff and red raw rub of each rough touch,
Trailing the grazes and abrasions from the hundredth caustic remark,
And the bruising bloom under the skin of the way someone else can say a name
So filled with love; so filled with loathing; so left lonely
Drinking at the empty dining table, another night alone –
Scoffing at the stains from the spill of the one wine glass
Already in the dishwasher from the dirty talk the night before.