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.