He imagines sheâ€™s boiling water for teaâ€”
he, just sitting down to beer and ribs.
He remembers her kettle doesnâ€™t whistle or sing
as sheâ€™s been known to, just risks boiling overâ€”
itâ€™s like her, he muses, to have a kettle like that,
to think her singing strength enough.
The beer obligingly beads the frost off the glass
and his ribs have cooled just enough for handling…
The ribs lie so willingly on the plate, he canâ€™t
bring himself to address them till heâ€™s tried
to bend one, just to feel some resistance, as God did,
with Eveâ€”now those were ribs with a spine!
Sheâ€™s boiling water, he, just sittingâ€”each, he surmises,
lonely as an apple left to winter over on the branch.