Wind by Natalie Voelker
I AM NOT WATERCOLOR
after Anne Sexton
Shaping clay in deep shadow all night, I glaze
plates with red sunset and volcanic fury.
He is with her. Hiding behind the dark hair of the careful one
with thin hands and a stick-and-poke tattoo, my husband
nightly speaks of wearied love in whispers. Not to me.
Meanwhile, our cherubs sleep soundlessly.
All our past sunsets disappear, offering him time to pursue lust.
A crack forms in my earthenware jar
and when I break, he will slice
fruit sitting prettily in a broken bowl.