by Pat Daneman

Still Life with Ex-Wife

A dying thing, her letter damps the trough between his thumb and forefinger where so often his chin rests as he lets his mind out to wander. He smoothes his mistakes from his temples until they corkscrew out his ears. She wants the hair on his back braided into the hair on his shins. She would feed him his toenails. Page 2, she writes of breakfast in Dover, dirty napkins, salt shaker in the shape of a nun. Page 3, Crescent Beach, starfish, filling her pockets with stones. Somewhere beyond her signature whole villages burn. Salt shaker in the shape of a nun, but no peppery priest. Wedding dance of dust, cinders. Knives humming with heat. A woman with sparks in her eyes, lifetime of stones in her pockets.