A bad night for a scattering.
The river’s mouth was full.
Sucked in its draught the last of him
seemed indissoluble.
So once again she’d got things wrong.
His vinegary grin
acidulous with dentures gone,
the snarl, the spite left in
a glass of water by the sink
where, magnified, their bite,
tongue lashed in its acrylic pink,
bobs liplessly contrite
for marble cold enough to chill
skinned knuckles or atone
for soft spots fingered like the gills
thumbed open to the bone,
for lies sworn blue or love sworn blind
and every day this new
unsolving pain cut hands still find
gut fish attending to.
