--- C H R I S T O P H E R   L O C K E

 

In cooking class, a student asked

how many lemons were needed 

for lemon meringue pie. And as I

figured the number in my head,

I thought how a doctor referred

to a growth inside my wife as

lemon-like, maybe bigger,

and then the brave silence my wife

registered on the long drive

home, the way she dutifully

went to the crumpled laundry

and began sorting piles as the last

razor wire of daylight pulled from

a blue jay scolding atop a pine.

And later that night, as I reached

out to her, the magnificent withholding

of herself was locked away

from our boat-like rhythm, all

our lost chances escaping us,

expelled in the air with our cries.