Cleave
It starts with a low sling in your hip
as it rests against the Formica counter.
I follow your hand with my eyes, the in-
and-out of the knife as it uncouples garlic
slivers from the bulb. Why is it always raining
on days such as these? Why wasn’t it yesterday
when everything was right?
And why do you ask, without bothering
to look up from the cutting board, am I
happy with our life?