The Way the Wind Blows

Do I dare leak liquid silence?
The muffled male voice.

Time and tide are turning.
She hisses and hushes
his words in the glottis.

Subversion of history lingers.
Chimneys cough late at nights
as driving hands sink in sinks,

knives smell blood trickling
from unaccustomed fingers
fishing plump pumpkin seeds.

She stamps defiant;
he slides softly.