Her fingers

are in every bowl

she washes

as he breakfasts

with another.

She hovers

still—still.

She has closed eyes,

closed ears, except

the bird cries

beyond her window.

Her poor heart,

a blind bird,

dashes itself

against his glass.

Shadows of women

sketch jealousy’s profile

on walls,

in ears,

along his bottom lip

(the one she loves to pull into her mouth.)

She looks through soap bubbles

at her hands shriveling.

Poor girl

stares at the sky

through the blinds

through the window

far from where she perches.

She cleans dish after fork after knife,

with her fingers in the water

like wet wings.

She waits, unsinging,

repeating till he returns.

Wash, wash. Dry, dry.