Each night when I had buried you
you popped up from the ground
and you'd be at the breakfast table
muddy, but safe and sound.
I begged you to accept your lot:
darkness; silence; death.
You tucked into your Bran Flakes,
my words a waste of breath.
It wasn't really different
from the life we used to live:
despite being defunct, you remained
and I couldn't find it in myself
anymore than I could then
to welcome you with open arms
or change my regimen.
But this week I've been on my own
with nothing but Today
though I can tell you clambered out
from the flowerbed's disarray.
Where are you now, I wonder?
Was it something I said?
Or did you realise, after all,
that I'm the one who's dead.
First published in HQ Poetry Magazine number 45