right hand pointing

Sometimes, Jake goes all day

without speaking.  He walks

back and forth along the south

wall of the adobe, stopping

now and then to stare

 

out the window as if the stranger

were approaching from Mexico.

These are the times Violet

dares not mention a memory,

keeping quiet as possible,

 

knowing even a glance at Jake

can detonate an imaginary

IED.  She waits patiently

for the Jake she loves to return,

the Jake with feelings, not

 

this Jake cold as a side of beef

suspended on a meat hook,

waiting for the cleaver,

the chopping into chunks

tossed to the lions of his dreams.