ELEANOR ROSS TAYLOR

Trying To Get Through

I make a knife of words.
I sit here waiting.
I play with crumbs.

Her eyes that should look
straight at me are
toward the window, glazed—
husband’s horizon?

Not armored. Only armed
with pots and pans.
Not out of arm’s reach,
beyond   curtains of doorbells,
garden gates.

She puts up ironwork
in her eyes; it draws   a bolt
over what’s real—
then looks at me.

I wish I’d brought my saw.