The Fight

by Susan Konz

He’s reaching across the table,
palm up, fingers splayed
beneath her chin as if to say,
like this, just like this, nothing
else.  It’s the shape of things
he’s mapping out for her. Simple
edges, crude shapes that speak
plainly. Unless, it’s their weight.
His hand falls down & rises, levied
before her face.
She keeps steady,
palms pressed to the table top.
She’s looking past the hand, her shoulders
drawn back, lips cinched. Is she remembering how
she used to determine things by feel?
As a girl, lilting her fingers beneath the cold tap
water or cloying down into the black soil
for rocks, worms –
even now, the lip of her glass
as, watching him speak, absently
she wets her finger, traces along
the edge. She’s learning.