You sit heavy at the kitchen table
A rough cough, nothing to say yet.
I put the steaming mug of tea beside your hand
where it sits untouched until it’s cold as whiskey.
I cut down the apple tree, you tell me.
It’s all firewood now.
My envy pulls sharp at your wallow of grief,
at the depth of your sorrow
for her errant tangle of mistletoe hair,
her limbs all askew in the field.
October 11, 2010