Open Season

A ceramic clink runs over the floorboards. A spoon like a jester’s tongue over the mouth of an espresso cup. No one is in the kitchen. I am alone in the dining room. Two of the five peonies I bought at the market still haven’t opened, haven’t given up their torn-tulle petals to whatever eye would hold them. A frame of lids curved like toothless smiles. Flies join the clink. The secondary motif of a fugue. If I’m honest, I’m thinking of you again, and I can’t remember which play of dust in the light, which pebble of sugar dissolving in my coffee, which creak of the wood beneath my feet brought you up. I should’ve written a second manuscript. This is my fourth coffee today. This is my second time buying my own flowers. I spent an entire day caressing a closed peony, whispering to it. Split like a hand preparing to be held. A week later, I lower a still balled fist into the compost.