i.
The forest around our house burned
down while you were cooking dinner,
but you couldn’t hear the branches
snapping over explosions of grease,
or see the flames through
your haze of onion tears.
Only when I burst through
the door, red lines criss-crossing
the terrain of my seared flesh
did you realize
that there had been a fire.
ii.
We fought a cold war
over pork chops and onions,
hoarding words like ballistic missiles,
an arms race of accusations
barely contained behind teeth
chewing on gristle and secrets,
eyeing the contested borders
of our bodies, strategizing
(whether to advance or retreat)
as we pass the salt on the brink
of mutually assured destruction
iii.
After dessert, we settle
for an armistice
and assemble at our front door
to survey the charred landscape,
smoke mushrooming (the fire
burned out a while ago) over ashes
in the shape of us.
You grip my scorched hand too
tightly, exposed nerves wiring
pain signals I ignore
to preserve our fragile peace.
iv.
I assume my station at the sink,
washing dishes, surreptitiously
admiring the slope of your back
as you search for pioneer species
in the nuclear fallout,
waiting for love to quicken
again.