two poems by Mandy Brown

Afraid of his pieces, he placed them in a bowl on the coffee table

for discussion. She counted ants between crochet stitches with a mouth

full of questions and wondered when to check the mail. He drove so far

home lost him in steaming rainbows of blacktops. She walked hallways,

ran hands along wood grain and picture frames. They never captured

her seeking: towels folded squares within squares, a life shrinking clean.

He now tastes blood and names it communion as if heartbreak were holy,

but she knows it’s just the sky full of rain and thunder, echoing dead trees.