if i could walk away from the fire, from the destruction, and jump up
a wall, up a chimney, up a tower, all the way up to God's arms
and leave you down there, sour and stale, dry blood on hair, cracked
lips bruises and cuts, smashed bones and broken eyelids,
if i could without hurting us, all the way to the core –but i can't:
everything has stopped the rain the ants the growing grass
my worried breath my frown the needle sewing my flesh
i bite my tongue and wait for death my child, my grain of rice,
my life of feeding crying nights. i gather blood in seashells or empty
cottage cheese pots
the leaking blood from the ceiling the drip drop at night
that sounds louder because it is dark and i am awake and outside
the storm and inside the leaks.
It’s just too cold to leave the house, to get out of bed, to look for
you, for work, for anything. i will lie in here until i am spat out
into the streets
by an anonymous bus, by the heating in a shop, by your quiet anger.
for i am nothing else than a stranger, a night moth, a broken piece,
only a leaf, just a dry and brittle leaf, and nothing more
than a sandal lost, adrift in the stream.