Inside, we see her clutch at a blue towel
or it might be a small blanket. His hand
moves up towards her bent head, a lock
of hair is pushed aside. Her brow is furrowed
cheeks flushed, body tense and nervous.
He tilts her chin we see him mouthe words
either tender or vicious, we cannot tell.
It’s the way her eyes flash in the candlelight -
that line between hate and passion that we cannot
draw. She clutches his left hand, briefly as if
she may topple, for a split of a hair we think she
will crumple like a blue blanket into the wrinkled
circle of his arms. But then he pushes and she
staggers backwards, smacks her leg into the small
wooden table, The blanket falls to the ground.
All of the photographs
in their little silver frames shake
-as if he had fallen to his knees.