My wife works in the kitchen, baking bread.
        I sit nearby, my life stale.  Hopes lie flat
        as unkneaded dough.  Jams, jellies
        decorate shelves, their saving flavors
        just within reach if I but choose the right jar,
        one not mismarked, spoiled, poisonous even.
        I grab the jar with slippery hands, feel
        smooth glass sliding from my grip.  I stoop
        to pick up pieces, stop at the sight of blood dripping.
        I gaze first at scattered jagged slivers,
        then at remaining jars, unbroken.
        Glancing from her baking, my wife sees,
        suspended in mid-air, my quavering hand.

Copyright © Gene Fehler, 2005. All Rights Reserved.