After he says, this isn't about you,
she flicks away his hand, concentrates
on the small potted vine, an upper leaf.

She waits for the rest of the words,
for the yellow to creep down
leaf by leaf, the stems to wither.

The overhead light fixture, unable
to bear silence, moves outside, hangs
luminescent in the winter chokecherry bush.

Touch, move, leave, none of this is
personal.  The crushed space between them
smells of mustard gas.  She digs a trench.

© 2005 by Louisa Howerow. All rights reserved.