Kryssa Schemmerling

Her husband has a tiny flaw
in his heart, a leaky valve.
In bed beside him at night

she listens to his blood
drip. Listens
to the labored breath

of pipes, walls, bricks.
Expanding,  contracting.
In the morning

one icicle
hangs from the eaves.
It's perfect,

says the husband.
But she knows
it's an omen

of something
brewing or
breeding unseen

beneath lath
and plaster,
beneath cellulose

panels that disintegrate
like paper. Tomorrow
the lady of the house

will weep
in a plumber's arms,
the latest

in a long line of men
who have passed
through here

bearing bad news,
as plumbers
always do.