my ear is ringing
the road is singing
the light is filtering in
the cat is curled
and words unfurled
and silent in the din.

I sit in corners
eyes flashing
up and around, looking
for a face
to alight on
and suddenly there are many
too many
and they all alight
on me

                                                      eggs, eggs for
                                                         breakfast
                                                   penises for lunch
                                                 crafts in December--
                                   I think I may know
                                   what hides in
                                   the wrapping
                                   under silver bow--
                                                I think I have a hunch.

Two years
and she was gone.
We're still going.
Clapping my hands
I tried for months at a time
to catch the air she left behind.
She left us with
her scraps, her scrawl
jagged, stabbing upward
I still run my fingers over their shards
and spires
wishing I could
bleed.