At a Terrace Table
The candle flame, fractured in the cut-glass urn,
was slowly drowning in the molten wax.
Her fingers twirled a strand of auburn hair
that had spun a spider’s web of softness
at her neck. “I just don’t know what you want.
I don’t know how you want me to reply.”
She looked at him a little longer. “You
have made it very difficult for me.”
She paused a moment, staring at the flame;
and through reflections in the window pane
she saw the rusted iron lily by
the pond and saw her blackened hands gesture.
“You just don’t know how hard it is for me.
I wish you’d understand.” The goldfish gasped
for air and swam in aimless circles in
the algae covered pond. Transparent hands
began to smooth the linen table cloth.