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

undemonstrative

 

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