The corridor has green light smeared on the walls,
across the tiled floor,
from the one window letting in November.

No one can open this door like me,
I can eliminate the shrieks.
Silent as a wave-lulled seashell, I lift the latch
and breathe the stale cigarette smell that, when you lived,
I lived to swallow whole.

I hear your fettered, malignant turnings.
Lead sinkers tied to your ankles,
eyes thumbed shut, you’ve followed someone else’s blood-red comet, out into coldness.

I wish I could come back in broad day
and see the rippled sheets warm in the sun, the pillowcases filled with sweetness.

Instead of hollow, you were supposed to be the solid
the space in me could lean on.
Instead my “mum?” melts in the walls and
I’ll say it again to your unmoving kurgan,
And wait here, my whole life, unmoved.

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