Wife Complaining Softly

I cook to keep the moon
from falling through the roof.

Singing to you,
I bake a soft bread.

I bake
so I can hand you

a warm hand
and say

stay by the fire
where the howling cannot be heard.

Outside the wind of the train
could pull you along until you come apart.

Inside, the scrim of bagpipes,
the warm breeze of aprons flapping,

hot cider, a silence we could sift
that isn’t empty.

But the dark horn of the train
is drawing you out into the night.

You turn away
from my Irish face.

It’s nothing personal — I know that;
on our roof, pieces of the moon congeal.