The Geometry of the Kitchen

The fork makes a screech on the plate,

a sound like a nail on a bone.

They sit in the quiet they hate,

each of them deeply alone.

He passes the glass with his hand,

not meeting the gaze of his wife.

A language I don't understand

has taken the air from their life.

The coaster is chipped on the side,

absorbing a ring of the cold.

There is nowhere for people to hide

when the story is weary and old.

It isn't a fight or a shout,

just the weight of the water they share.

I watch as the fire goes out

leaving nothing but ash in the air.