Postdepartum

Water sliding down a spring
Creep of quiet night
Seconds drag

I let out a yawn
And I don't know if it's
Just me being tired
Or an ache in my breast
But it's not fair, dear

You could be sitting behind me
Or in the next room
Upstairs
Next door
But your cold kilometres climb
Upon my mind
And I find
Myself stuck underground

Quite quiet
My room looms incomplete
Would that I could
Change the slow sombre show
Into an easel of skynight

Put my fingers to your lips
To stop the words you can't say
Not laying here

Mumbling through mittens
And your letters lounge in my head
And leave me dead or dying red
And the water sliding down is red
In the quiet creep of night