Haunted

Haunted

Our life together

lurks in my life,

coming up for air

in my dreams:

Thus, we make love—

with some poetic licence as to age and condition,

and your wife’s permission.

She is still hypothesising

we need closure.

 

I meet your in-laws, who,

unsurprisingly,

say little and stare.

Your wife is distressed when

I drop little Lukey’s meds

under the Christmas tree.

 

I am left behind,

scrabbling around for teeny pills

in fallen needles and scraps of wrapping-up paper.

I cry in the spare room

when you and the family go out to the Fair.

 

I love you

beyond your deserving.

I love you

beyond reason or motive

or reality.

 

Cuttlewoman, copyright 2018