When the sun dips low in the faraway pine woods,
my husband comes home with inevitable muddy boots;
the axe, shines silver steel, put proudly across his shoulder,
a stack of firewood rolled in his brawny arm, a sprig of occasional heather.
Unloading the bundles, he gobbles the porridge I made,
with amazing swiftness of a bird of prey,
while I cower by the oven, dreadfully aware of the night,
when he will turn to me in bed and lift his weapon to strike.
No comments:
Post a Comment