January

Last night after dishes, our house
quiet. I was reading and you
from somewhere down the hall
came up with both hands over
your face. So we walked together
to the bathroom. And I saw down
at the scoop in the back of the porcelain,
our baby comma. A russet pebble
color stilled in clear water, meager
mass at rest, dropped like a ring.
Floor tiles hard and cold made our voices
sound like glass breaking, and that clang
and flush we heard like a clang and roll
of thunder off the rim of the sea.