November 14, 2007

Cooker white clumps
of ant-viral tissues,
discarded individually
to find each other bright
in carrier bags, stark and strange
on top the table by the sofa,
living in the dark,
under chairs, on the carpet,
piled like swollen
documents –
confetti blown
too big.

The woman remembers being a girl
on a stair, coughing phlegm
in a basin. The women has
no basin. No mother comes
to scoop her messy language
into bins.

She sleeps a lot;
seals her darkness into hours
uses each – like a club
to beat the sickness back –
bore it till it stops
its breathing.

The tissues mass a watching army.
The box is empty, like a Trojan
cardboard horse.

Outside the sky is veined
with blue and gold,
with silver white,
and bands of neon.

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