Returning…
He was alone in his house when she called
saying she wanted to drop off something:
a butter container and small plate.
He put the kettle on
wondering what she really wanted.
Outside the doorbell rang and she stepped
away as he moved to open it.
Between familiarity and politeness
she moved further out of reach;
the hairs on her arms raised
as she attempted a smile.
He offered her to come inside for tea.
She declined, turning her face away, all blank
they fell. He didn’t see them falling.
Boiled hot, like tears on crockery.
The grass was wet, when she was leaving
and the car door too. As she drove away
the road stretched on forever, and he sat
in the kitchen, the tea getting cold
and bitter. She had said nothing
when he suggested they meet for coffee.
