Wednesday, October 2, 2019


Andrew wrote a suicide note
and addressed it to his daughter on her 16th birthday
but then considered that that would be
both traumatizing and cruel.
So he set the letter on fire,
watched it burn slowly in the sink,
along with his murderous intentions.
His wife called him from the living room,
“What are you doing in there?”
She never trusted him alone in the kitchen.
Always had to know what he was doing,
what he was cooking,
what he was eating,
like a man couldn’t stand in front of the sink
and stare out the kitchen window for a while
or gaze into the open refrigerator,
contemplating all his options,
closing the door and opening it again.
“It smells like you lit a candle!”
she complained.
“Just come back to the couch,”
she implored.
He didn’t have a mirror,
but the kitchen window provided a reflection.
He practiced a toothy grin,
but his reflection did not smile back.

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