We sit at opposite ends of the living
room while anger prowls the house quietly,
filling his dark sack with our antique
laughter, our precious mornings in bed, the silver
evenings in the hammock. Nothing left
but the sharp words we keep locked
in our mouths and the hard, unforgiving
chairs where we pretend to read.
When I look up, you look up, and we know
something is missing. We stay that way
for a moment, like two people who have heard a strange
noise outside late at night: our eyes bright
with fear, but ready to kill if we have to.