I don’t want him home
He’s a fucking liability.
She never said those words
The scriptures won’t allow it
With their plainsong lack
Of imagination, but that’s
what she was screaming.
Seventy-four
Never setting foot
Outside the door
While he wakes in the night
To imaginary carers.
Wrong, wrong, wrong –
She tears the bandage from his skin
The warm receptors
The cloak and daggers
How can it happen
That you’re left with something
You couldn’t imagine
Could be so worn.
Nights are slow
Days unwieldy
She plans different outcomes
But he is still happy
His weight on her shoulders
The inside alive
While outside
Dawn breaks
Overcast skies.