Woman as a House
By Amanda Needham
There are cobwebs in me where you used to be.
I am full of spiders and egg saques
a haunted house that shudders her shutters.
There were poems there, once.
But now when the windows become mirros your reflection is still
seen.
heard.
screaming.
The pages are fuzzy and delicate with rot.
It tastes like a housefire and salt.
As the mail piles up, the letter from you are still absent.
Just periodicals bringing bad news:
You are not coming back.
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