When he stopped recognizing his wife,
he conjoled her behind the wood shed,
wearing a blue bird dress and a string of cowries.
And him: the suit he'd be buried in.
With his finger on the trigger, she asked
"Did you happen to set the kitchen timer?"
And he didn't have the heart to tell her
it's been 10 years of extracting things from the oven--
and the manuscript she believed
was plagiarized by another,
in her own hand.
It occurred to him in a flash of clarity,
that his wife could be like an octopus;
able to detach a part of herself at will--
exhausted of her faculties,
reasoned in their age.
Then over them, flew an osprey
and she looked up,
and she looked up.
And he followed her eyes,
and he followed her gaze.
he followed her.