The art of war

she walks in somewhere a universe implodes and a couple of crows plunge to their death from a fig tree the air in the kitchen becomes toxic I should be used to it but I’m not at the sink a war will erupt among cutlery and pots I dare not interfere my hands numb cradling a coffee cup I stare at its swirling depth hoping to find peace fairy dust or an anchor at least anything but this rings draw me in and the grinding noise in my head dissipates to faint echoes settling in the pit of my stomach I wonder if my hospital insurance is up to date