I wish your voice had sounded clearer, but you
were driving. Driving through some winding
country lane, I guess; trees bending over
the road, eavesdropping as we tried to speak.

I was in the kitchen, mobile wedged between
my ear and shoulder, peeling potatoes. Coils
of brown skin flopped into the colander. I told
you how my work was unbearable. Thankless

days. Endless asks. Joyless tasks. Finally,
I told you how I'd fallen. Your words were
clipped by empty spaces as the signal faded.
I scarred my forehead as I fell. Healing now.

Better than it was. I imagined the rhythmic
cat's eyes, punctuating the road like tiny
shooting stars as you drove homewards
into the night. Underneath the waning moon,

far from all the bright lights.