The morning and I nod
as we pass each other
in the kitchen.
She spoons coffee grounds
into the French press,
opens all the windows.
Bloor St. seeps
through the screen –
garbage trucks, exhaust,
deep fry, weed – steeped
in the city’s summer heat.
The future arrives
as it does these days,
white knuckling.
A cup of coffee cooling
on the dresser, a face
washed in the bathroom sink.
There is a woman here,
somewhere. The lilies
bought to make a home
fade in their pasta sauce jar,
orange price sticker half-
peeled off. By now they’ve begun
to break apart, open hands
upon the kitchen table.
Pistils paint my palm
yellow as a bruise.
I gather the pieces.