She once breathed life into his own.
Now, she’s breathless from the effort
of walking ten yards from her bed
to the dining table where
his attempt at breakfast – gallant,
but lacking knives beside the plates –
awaits her, once she regains strength
while he sits quietly and stares
at cooling eggs with bated breath.
He’ll go out later after all.
What else is to be done? She spent
a life facilitating and
would only feel uncomfortable.
This so strong woman he has known
to carry on calmly always
sits panting, and more worryingly
sometimes wide-eyed like a gnu
with a lion at its throat.
(It’s only been a short three months;
they saw just that in Africa.
He swore and worried at the camera
until she reached across and switched
the “bloody stupid thing” to “photo”–
he had filmed the thundering clouds
rolling across darkening plains.)
She cracks the egg and smiles across
and is the girl whom he once wooed.
An angry cough comes from his throat.