by Meg Pokrass
There’s something like cinder
in his voice these days.
He’s flying out tomorrow
without her, he says,
wiping down duck hunting boots
in his open garage.
Maybe it’s his guarded step,
when his wife is near,
how this man, that woman
delete each other—
Perhaps it’s his love
for silly pet store fish,
the way he gently taps
fish food into their bowl.
I imagine him wading
through deep water to me,
as if I were a Mallard,
brown eyes flashing,
his humid breath mixing with mine
like wood smoke.
