She tells him she’s leaving him and he
bakes a pie. His pies are exquisite,
their crusts like crinoline.

He doesn’t change clothes, works
in slacks, shirtsleeves rolled.
Summer makes the kitchen unbearable

but he suffers beautifully, tenderly
cuts the strawberries, pours
into the deep curve of the bowl.

She hadn’t missed his hands since
last they drew her to his body.
Now she watches them stroke the edges

of the dough, shape it like cooling glass.
When the oven opens, his brow drips,
he brings his hands to his face.