THREE
There were trees outside when
they arrived. One day, he
sliced everything down.
There’s only quiet,
filling the room until
she’s choking –
she used to hide it better but
it’s harder, now, and
she can’t grasp the edges of it and
he doesn’t try. He’s happy
in the garden, away from
the house’s thick silence.
At night a dark sea laps around her bed.
She’s awake. Listening for the scrape of
branches against the pane,
soft fingers on glass. His
heavy body beside her.
He’s asleep, somewhere.
TWO
There was never time.
The important things stayed
outside the house, and
she never went outside.
Too easy, with the kids crying, to ignore
the heady scent from the bush,
the silver leaves shivering.
They went driving, once,
down a dirt track
when she was young –
when they were young and
she was full of feeling, glad
to hear him talk.
In the house there’s no space
no space for thinking and so
she sits there. Sometimes
it doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.
ONE
Giddy, she slips out one night and
runs barefoot to his car.
This is real, she knows it, and
they’ll be happy, she knows it, and
she laughs with him the whole way there.
The bar’s busy, brimming
with noise, with people teeming
around her – she’s happy to listen, and wait
for the ride home. Outside the car
trees streak past, stretching
rough hands upwards. His hands
on the wheel. Quietly
he takes her home,
packs her up inside. Darkness
presses in against the windows.
Her eyes are open.
Somewhere, he’s asleep.
