She notices tiny fissures on the
back of her hand, redwood rings.
Their children downstairs frame
black and white in four by six.
The last breakfast: bacon, poached eggs,
a bit of buttered toast.
Downstairs, scraped-plate residue slips through
his sink worn fingers.
Upstairs, her letter unfolds, rosewater scented and neat.
The back of an envelope seals. She remains unsealed.
He calls to her from the kitchen: white knuckled, starched, hard backed.
She was never silent.
Too late, he takes the stairs.
She tightens a cord.
Both focused on the cracks in their ceiling.
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