There Will be no Blue Nights for You.

Ink in water, it spreads

And blooms


If ink were red


This death is a muting

Not a mutiny


The body does not want to be left

Heaves, rises, needs stones in pockets


Small comforts – she will not be divorced

Widowed instead, archaic


Flesh, trapped in amber

Calling into question purposes


of mothering, of wifeing, of loving and caring and listening and being and laughing; drinking and worrying and late nights on the telephone or early memories of rivers and rowboats and parcels wrapped in brown paper carrying badly knitted jumpers; of vows and births and faded wedding dresses


These are broken promises

Whispered lies


you have dwarfed yourself now – person to corpse, to nothing

Cold, cut up, eviscerated, soon to be burnt or burrowed into, to become a home for worms to turn to dust to ground


Ashes to ashes, back to your errant god

Defined by your final act

The curtains you called


Where are your ideas now, your smile, your laugh that ripped the air

Where are your hands when she needs them to tuck her hair behind her ear, to brush it out, to pat her back to sleep

Just folded, rotting


I spit my teeth at you

And let the water out.


by Ali Millar