TV Dinner

You at the counter, cutting onions into moons,

one hand aloft to heel away the tears,

 

me watching ants on the television,

two of them, drinking a bridal cup

of rain, holding the drop between them,

the bright waterskin unbroken.

 

The clock by the window striking nine,

the pendulum drowsing,

the ants drinking from their upheld moon,

 

and you coming to stand beside me,

your hand coming to rest on me,

your eyes on the television,

and your face all wet and salt from weeping.