The carrot is obscene against my palm
as I peel it skins ribboning
toward where you bend low to choose a pan.
We are on day two of a new calm.
I admire you sideways and nick my knuckle.
The next carrot is cracked
widely down the spine a violent cleaving
fissure so filthy
as to be geological. I pause to listen: rattling
air vent, sizzle of fat, your wedding ring’s ring
against the casserole dish. That second carrot
split itself not in protest but to move closer
to the next sunken thing.
We are inside the hush we’ve been fighting for.
