she made such a huge fuss in the mornings, the pots and pans having nothing to do with tea
still yowling and when pressed she would make-up her stories
and batches of pancakes:
whole grain.
the entire while this would happen and he would hover tentatively, forever in the way
and frustrating, but never near enough to solve her problems
or to stir the batter:
left lumpy.
she could love him in her strange way, her body uncertain but wanting to yield
an affront to liberation, torn between respect for herself
and release of shame:
simple tears.
but he never managed to find the way through that complicated morning maze she wove
angry for her mother's disdain and taking it out on dishes
clawing at the taps:
howling inside.
in wafts and tendrils his body moved away, quiet but still reassuring her in backward glances
(how can damage be undone in its making, he wondered)
and in free (stolen) moments:
found solace.
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