She runs a bath to break the silence,
watched only by a silver-framed
They sit, at opposite ends
of a warm thought, until words
tumble into soft vanilla light.
Her back moulded to his chest,
he washes her hair, long fingers
Intimacy lifts the grey weight
of the day, her transient relief
In the absence of slotted spoons,
my hands grift you from the roiling
pan, cradle you in china.
Soldiers muster to guard you
while blistered, untended fingers
seek salve in itinerant silence.
Dermis destroyed; third degree
nerve death, while you, coddled
in your sibling sentinel, grow cold.
the smooth warm wood grain
comforting in the palm.
in this enervated state,
to lift swing thwack
The sharp stick