I was dragged into wardrobes
clothes smelled of us afterwards
hiding places, different worlds,
o u r
l i t t l e
s e c r e t
I was delighted
part of a tradition
chosen
I was playing
on your serious rock bottom
*
your composure and daily routines
softened your tortured face
and I ignored the moving images of the past within you
distorting your bitter body
and trusted the man who gardened religiously
who made the house smell of coffee
who got up so early in the morning
I never saw the ghosts he assembled at the breakfast table
staring into the blackness of his brew
the knife cutting into the cold hard butter
dying around the blade
mass grave, salt mine, casualty, blanketed bread
knots in his mouth
smiling at me
something’s wrong
Croque-Melpomene 