How It Ends
by Anemonie Beaulier
You stand, charred salmon and torn
romaine still on your plate. Clenching
the curtains back, you look past
our garden—forget-me-nots, bleeding
hearts rising among the ferns—and beyond
the thin hemlocks that fence our lot.
I pinch crumbs from the tablecloth.
Even the water glasses weep.
