He fishes-
with barbed question hooks.
Discarded conversation-thread
leaves me too tangled
to talk.
Too tired to care.
Exclamation marks hurt-
Long strokes do nothing to sooth.
Marble-dots scatter
to trip me up as I move.
******* the difference
between his round-mouthed-O
and mine-
A slow, steady discontent
slithers
down my spine.

I am lonely.
I am a moldy and forgotten
sandwich rotting in the corner of your fridge.
My ham is slimy and my lettuce droops.
My tomato oozes.

And you know nothing about it.

I am lonely.
I am a gnarled and frayed
left slipper hiding in the dark under your bed.
My stitches have been ripped open by dogs
but I was once a part of your favorite pair.
My sole is bare.

And you know nothing about me.

I am lonely.
I am a necklace I bought you in
the spring of last year.
I remember when you wore me out
almost every day and night.
Now I am kept out of sight and
Out of mind.

And you know nothing about me.
And you don't know where I am.
And you don't know what I'm close to.
And you don't know where that smell is coming from.

how did shadow walk into this light filled home?
did i forget to bolt the door? or leave a window ajar?
did he steal down my chimney while i slumbered in my bed?
while dreaming words of love and joy?

he sits at my table now, demanding another cup of grief from me.
how can i tell him he's emptied my cupboards? and what
will he do when i ask him to leave without quenching his thirst?

and why, oh why, do i want to offer him anything, anything at all,
if he would only stay?

She’s cracking eggs.
“What are those?” she asks, pointing to white and red specks in the bowl.
Once I’d have told her it was shell-
but she’s too old for that now
so-
“Where the eggs started to grow”
“Into chickens?”
“Yes”
“Oh” she says, staring intently at a gooey mess in the palm of her hand.
I finish weighing out the ingredients,
wipe her clean-
“Which colour icing do you want?”
She’s carefully spooning cake mix into bright-striped paper cases.
“Can we make angel cakes instead?”
I go into the kitchen to pre-heat the oven,
steal two minutes silence.
Deep breath.
“No. We'd be cutting up perfect little cupcakes to make the wings”
Choked.
I can’t tell her why
I don’t do Angels in December.