In my cabinet
no one comes
tapping. The
slap of my
thoughts
like the strike
of steel drums
on the walls.
No one calls.
My breath
booming; a
bass string
plucked in
panic. The
air around
opaque as
top-shelf
ignorance.
With me weep
my shoulders,
stooped, my
hands, curled
and catching
the precipitation
of grief.  No
mewls, no
moans – my
voice, too, has
left me heaving
and weeping to
the sounds of
my seclusion.