More on What I Don't Know
Charlotte Pence

My husband looking for his running shoes, 
passing through the kitchen toward the yellow
back door.  Me standing at the counter,
swiping spilt pepper grounds
into a blue rag. 
                      He stops,
wraps his arms around my waist
from behind.
                      Passion is the word for that,
but I don’t know the word for what else it is:
the web being hooked and crossed
in the basement while we sleep above.
                      One strand attached to the shiny
bicycle spoke, another attached to the rusted
nail head that juts from the basement post.

Previously Published in Greensboro Review  

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