Behind her, a potted ivy climbs the yellow wall.
Ivy is not the plant
but its loneliness.
Wife is not the woman
but her cup.
The house feels empty as dumb
hunger without him in it.
The engine of a plane overhead
is the same sound
her stomach makes.
The shadows lay themselves
down the table and soon
darkness takes the room.
The neighbors flick on lights
and pull the shades.
No shame in nature
save what’s in man.
Her hands touch
each other.
The world turns like an ache
in the belly of the sky.