Slice by Slice

Two wide damp marks on the green stair carpet

brown splashes, drips, on the primrose yellow wall,

I stop in my tracks, rushing up the stairs.

How long have they been there?

Since yesterday?

What happened? I call to my husband 

who is still in bed.

What did you spill?

Oh it’s just tea.

But why didn’t you clean it up?

Or tell me?

Tea stains you know.

Oh does it? Sorry.

And while I scrub at the marks and wipe down the walls

like a mad person 

as if I cared so much about my carpets

even more than my husband,

my heart is in bad angry splinters.

Because he doesn’t know that tea stains?

Because he would have known what to do? 

Before.

No.

Because I keep hiding behind my plate glass wall

pretending everything is normal.

Because it’s such a little thing

with such a long jagged blade 

cutting into the years 

that are coming.

Slice by slice.