I have been leaving
my dishes in the hallway.
In the morning clean
ones appear as if by magic,
as if I were not this alone.
The husband, husband still,
careful and quiet in his slip-ons
and I on the other side of the door
contemplating my escape
from this marriage, again
(don’t let it be this).
I search for cracks—
the dripping chimney, the fireplace,
the old windows the cold comes in.
I eat nothing, grow thin,
tighten myself like paper.
A metal cord drips from the ceiling fan.
I’ve caught a kitten inside
a little wooden box—
hear her in there? Purring?
Turn the light on for me, kitten,
for it is dark and I am afraid.
Tonight I might just pour myself out.
I am wickedly spoiled, this jug of me.
Too contagious to talk on the phone even.
Too tired to remember which side
of awake I am on.
The morning sneaks up on me again.
She hides behind the blinds. We play.
She winks and I stand inside her
room all yellow and vibrating.
It was her who told me to come with her.
I did, without even packing a bag.
I was so thin, it was easy.
But the wind found me quick and made me
go home, to sit still, to wait
until I am better. But what is better?
I asked. I could not hear a thing,
only dust, caught, just like me, by the sun. 
 

—Jan LaPerle

Poet’s Website

< BACK | NEXT >

TABLE OF CONTENTS