Custody
At the restaurant, across
the table
of neutral salt shakers and
violent forks
our stiff backs like wooden
chairs
betray an ancient battle.
We discuss the finer points
of divorce
over spilled merlot and
plates of cold food.
You speak, and I grit my
ears. My face a closed
envelope.
I draw lines in the spilt
salt with my steak knife.
Our daughter is a dividend
carved from my hip
and a piece of your rib.
She scribbles furious
red circles marking the
paper,
bleeding the tablecloth.
Her voiceless soul rustles,
a thousand shards of
glittering mirrors
hanging like leaves from a
tree.
Poised above her delicate
head,
her seashell ears, her round
face,
hair like fine spun silk,
Solomonfs hefty sword ready
to burst her
bone from flesh
cut her in half,
one piece for me
one for you.
We swallow the last
of our bitter wine,
split the bill
and part ways.
BACK
NEXT
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