In her herb garden he uprooted

each plant , coriander and mint

threw them into the kitchen.

Earlier in the day, she’d woken

gone into his shed, deep blue

overalls hung, screws and nails

neatly stacked in the toolbox 

half told stories, his mother’s

affair. He was affectionless, kept

all this sealed, from time to time 

went in there to sit. She wanted

to provoke him and he knew when

he walked in that his feelings

weren’t where he’d left them.

Disembodied, the dead plants

whisper. What have we done?