You tried to tell her how
you felt
couldn't find words.
Just the knife
It made - oh! -
such succulent sounds!
as you told her again & again & again.
Next morning, woken
from memory, you
stared at your hands, but
felt no urge to wash.
She came home as you
Made breakfast, saying
She'd been out all night,
Acting as nothing had changed,
As if she didn't remember,
As if you hadn't killed her.
But there are holes
in her jacket
the knife is
very cold still in
your pocket
frozen
waiting.
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