What if stars aren’t real,
but another of God’s parlor tricks,
a handful of jacks pulled from black pockets
and tossed into random skies?
What if your hand on her thigh
means you never loved me
and this soup boiling over
fails to scorch my numb hands?
I fold napkins and scour crusted pans.
The clock tick-tocks on my wall.
I don't know how to take the news
of your packed suitcase on my bed.
A daffodil could open on my tongue
and I’d step around the corner
stunned, spitting yellow petals
with nothing to say.