Aperture

I told him I was busy on Sunday,

but the truth is just a pile of mail

and the way the light gets stuck

in the wool of my winter coat.

It sits on the high-back chair,

shoulders slumped like a man

who is tired of waiting

to be told he's forgiven.

I think of that small wooden box,

the air tasting of old cedar

and the dry, sandpaper sound

of a throat clearing behind the curtain.

Just a cough, a shift in the dark,

before the sliding door snaps shut.

Now the silence in this kitchen

is too wide to fit through the door.