It's a bowl of cereal.

She wants to eat breakfast together
today.
Two slices of toast, one dry.
One lathered generously with a spoonful of seedless jelly.
And cereal.

The cupboard is full of her cereal.
A color-wheel line of Mini Wheat and Chex varieties.
She pours whole milk into a plastic purple bowl.
“It tastes like unwisked frosting,” she says with a spoon
hanging from her chapped lips.
I smile and return to my newspaper advertisements.

She talks about cereal to get my attention.
About the wilting azelea in on the windowsill,
with the buds that look like crumpled paper.
The table is a long off-white rectangle,
we’re seated at opposite ends, wearing each other’s slippers.
Her voice is weak and cracks on back-to-back vowels.
She continues to sip milk from the plastic bowl.

~
“What is this?”
My eyes crawl to the top of the advertisement page.
She’s holding a blue box of cereal.
“It’s Crispix. They only taste good with sugar. And raspberries.”
“This is our relationship,” she whispers.
The coffee pot shuts itself off with a robotic tick.
“And I’m hungry,” she’s crying now.
I reach for my piece of dry toast,
and shove a corner into my mouth.

She pours a second bowl, pieces of cereal
floating like boxes from a sinking ship.
“This is our relationship,” she says again.
“I know,” crumbs fall from my beard.
“It’s delicious.”