the fan is nothing but background noise
like your voice, gravel that grates
upon delicate ears. you were an impression
left too long on unwashed bedsheets.

the maid forgot to come again,
and an air of stale memories has settled
like a layer of dust on the mirror.

i inscribe your name on my stomach, 
with the fragments of your leftover presence.
i had washed you out, i had extracted your nails
and rinsed with bleach but still, your stench
remained, holding on with lies and rhapsody.

sometimes pain refuses to die
a respectful death.  bittersweet frissons
of yesteryear have molded themselves
to the rafters, stretching like cobwebs
from one corner to the other-- invisible
traps for unsuspecting swathes of skin
wrapped in swaddling clothes.

i had unearthed you; dug you out with pens
and needles. the dirt had been brushed away
(i always took great pains with you...).
but still, you clung, as though to mock
the ineffectiveness of my attempts to clean
the pleadings under my fingernails.  my keys
no longer fit the same doors, my sheets grace
different beds in different rooms, but there's
a scent that haunts the pillowcases. i lie

awake, unable to escape from the demons.
my eyes are buttoned down, they unravel one
by one.  breathing is a constant siege,
each rise and fall marking one more decade that
you've still breached. i plucked you from my womb

and dangled you the way a curious child
holds an insect by the wings, at arm's length.
your legs flailed so that you seemed helpless,
but i could not have known that your eyes
carried a poison impossible to eradicate.

10/26/2003

Author's Note: Another burst of intricate cooperation between the brilliant Rachelle Howe and the humbled yours truly.

Posted on 10/26/2003
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