i’m a Sunday, barefoot in the kitchen,

having sweet corn;

each bite, an offering into the

plump and marigold kernels,

my friend has gone to Exeter

& who will know if i call his name

backwards into my wet windpipe?

if i debone the door, couch

& coffee mug of him?

in the quiet, i sun dry myself

in brief rush of golden grace before the

clouds arrive like pirate ships. Once my

sister said i am an ocean, i waved in disbelief

then leap upon the rock of the disconnect tone.

truth is, i want to be small again,

made simple by crying,

before the plumber came by,

i’ve had sex three times,

i’ve imagined these walls

full of old photographs i could spill into —

rearrange poses, wear new clothes, tighten fingers.

i try to write a list of what i recognise

but end up drawing circles, mouths,

the back of a shadow leaving.

the corn is half-gone but nothing

is deboned. i stay in the kitchen

long after the light has changed its mind.