The Tornado

He asks me how to quilt
a better relationship,
something, he says, to keep me
warm. The pattern is hard
to explain without showing
him. I wave him off, telling him
it’s too taxing, and not important
enough to do right now.

Waiting to see what is left
after the storm, neither
of us is stupid enough to spend
what we might not still have.
He tries sewing it on his own
and it comes undone, so he asks
me to come verify the stitching.
I told you not right now!

We hear the wind pitch
and glass shattering. I blink
out the window. Yesterday
I left my wine glass on the stoop.
My bookmark falls to the floor.
The little pieces start to dance,
cascading fragments of light
into the dim room where we both
sit on the couch and cry.