The Blue Geography

The jar of pickles resisted me today

until my knuckles popped, a dry sound

like a twig snapping in a cold woods.

I watched her across the kitchen table

fumble with the small pearl buttons

on that gray cardigan she loves.

She wouldn't look up, wouldn't ask.

Her skin is paper-thin and translucent now.

I can see the blue, ropy veins

crossing the back of her hand,

a map of a city I don't want to live in,

showing every hard road she took to get here.