Trying to Get Through

I make a knife of words.

I sit here waiting.

I play with crumbs.

Her eyes that should look

straight at me are

toward the window, glazed—

husband’s horizon?

Not armored. Only armed

with pots and pans.

Not out of arm’s reach,

beyond curtains of doorbells,

garden gates.

She puts up ironwork

in her eyes; it draws a bolt

over what’s real—

then looks at me.

I wish I’d brought my saw.