After Their Fight

 

Politeness screams

from his bouquet of daffodils,

buds that look dead

in their brown spathes,

stems bound

by rubbers bands.

 

They’ll bloom in a couple days,

he says. She leaves them on the counter,

continues to perform their ritual

of getting over it.  She brings him

a bowl of stew with white beans

and barley, napkin and a spoon.

 

Too much cayenne

gives him a coughing fit.

She thinks of the woman

who watched her husband die

choking exactly this way.

She thumps him hard

on the back.

 

Water he says, dabs his eyes.

 

She hurries to the sink to fill a glass.

Too late, he reaches to squeeze her hand.

No, he says, for the flowers.