Two People

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 
mildly interesting.
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
someone’s blood.

It could be mine. It could be hers.
Both bled tonight.
Spoils of yet another war 
on the daily battlefield we call
dinner.

Our blood matches in colour.
It is the only thing we 
still have in common.

Different 
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
forms.

Rice maggots demand obeisance.

Two people say they are not hungry.
Two people say they are not angry.