It was the lifting
of his shoulder,
only the flipping of his hair,
the sigh.
He turned away.
The weight of it
pressed her stomach
till she felt scarred
and blackened
like the imprint
of a Hiroshima victim.
Only the dust of her
left to cry.
You can toss it out
without any guilt
glugging it down the drain
with your head turned
to avoid any possible
stench
and there is no offense,
for milk proudly tells you
when it has had enough.
I have seen your head
turn from me
and I can smell your
disappointment
gritty
and clumped
with bitterness
while empty white jugs
pile like snow on our back porch.