I write her a postcard to tell her
how I am. Not a real postcard–
the back of a coffee-ringed photo
of the pair of us, the same lemon dresses,
snuffling ice cream cones on the wall
in the wild chill of Devon.

In the mornings the bullish sun
heaves through everything, shatters
the greasy mirror, sour laundry,
with daylight I do not ask for.
A bottle of stolen make-up
she’d left dribbing on the sink,
her bracelets I thumb like rosary.

A towel sags on the doorframe
and I suck my pen trying to think.
Here, the windows have been locked
since she swung them out,
chain-smoking into the breeze.
A ribbon of chemical blues.
I write my first sentence,
I’m doing fine
and do not mention
her bedroom walls crumbling around me,
my suddenly oversized jeans
or the housefly buzzing, hysterical,
butting its skull to get out.


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