365 Poems/206 The Return (Rough First Draft)
You come back, but you’re not
Your face vast, like the surface
of Antarctica, and your responses
slow, like feet through deep snow
The windows whistle. You wanted
to fix them before the end, but now
it’s as though you can’t hear
the racket they make.
It’s not like in the films. You’re not
bloodthirsty. Nor are you just as before.
I wonder what happens when you
go into what hasn’t been your
bedroom for many months.
I wonder what she thinks
when you, bit by bit, shut
the door, closing the both
of you in together.
I crouch outside, hear
nothing. What is sleep
like when you’ve already
once tipped over into the abyss?
You speak so slowly, and I haven’t
seen you smile yet.
You forget about the herbal sweets
in the second drawer down.
You always had one after dinner,
before a cup of tea and a cigarette.
You are not yourself, and die again,
a week after coming back.
Behind cemetery walls,
grass regroups and grows.