There is cracked china in the sink.
Ornate cutlery once saved for special
occasions. Mustard oil and smears of
grease. Half eaten chicken legs.
Okra curry untouched on
the salty ceramic.
Takeaway boxes with tucked lapels
sit on the counter. Full of basmati rice
a forensic investigator would find
What happened here?
More clues peep out of the glass shards
on the aged oak table. Gravy stripes
shimmer down the wallpaper. Tapeworms
dissolving in the sliver of
It could be mine. It could be hers.
Both bled tonight.
Spoils of yet another war
on the daily battlefield we call
Our blood matches in colour.
It is the only thing we
still have in common.
rooms and different beds.
Identical ghosts in the regret we leave
uneaten at every meal. Okra fingers
point and accuse. The chicken limps
around the kitchen headless. When
the paramedics inevitably ram
the walls down, they will not find
our bodies in rigor mortis. We will
not lie spliced in the pit of our beds,
not choked by an umbilical cord
and the imagined memories
two people say they do not want,
two people say they do not miss.
Soak it in formaldehyde.
Donate the marrow.
We signed the
Rice maggots demand obeisance.
Two people say they are not hungry.
Two people say they are not angry.