RAVI SHANKAR
Between us the vacuum of early evening,
A pot of rice and beans simmering on the stove.
Between us, for now, an easy domesticity,
The way we move past each other without words,
A thin breeze hitched up to bay windows,
Our footsteps rattling on the hardwood floors.
Words are there though, invisible yet sharp
As incisors pulled from a hound’s drooling jaw,
Words we can never have meant to speak,
But did, recanted, then spoke again.
Such words should have died in our lungs.
They have staked between us a fence of teeth.