My husband primes his straight razor.
I don’t understand the strange paraphernalia
except for the silver blade
where our reflections frown.
Orchid roots stifle in a breakable pot.
Who shoots orchids like it’s a gun range?
Can you even accurately kill the center?
The soft place every pollinator wants.
He won’t kiss me on the mouth,
like he doesn’t want what I have,
the intense way my brain captures
a moment, like a lynching.
Memories build themselves into
circles like the rings we wear;
we resolve like a clean idea.
He shaves his face, his head.
Sarah Lilius lives in Arlington, VA where she’s a poet, editor, mother and wife. Some of her previous publications include: The Denver Quarterly, Stirring, and Hermeneutic Chaos. She is also the author of What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications, 2014). Her website is sarahlilius.com.