Let. Me. Love.

Out on the gravel, you tell me
that the love went bad. Covered in
grey mould as thick the crust other
children would have their mothers cut off.
You tell me that the mice are getting in,
point to their skinny bodies scattering
the road, an ill-formed parade. I can
see bones through their dull brown
coats and thin skin. I leave the door open,
just a crack.
You tell me that it’s time to get a cat,
but the SPCA aren’t doing adoptions
and neither of us trusts the neighbour
who’s cat, which looks more like a dog,
just had a litter. You said you don’t like
the way they smell and I say I’d rather
burn the floorboards.
You tell me you’ve ripped all the pages
out of the poetry books we kept on top
of the fridge. When I ask why, you say
the words aren’t true anymore and then
start setting traps.
Eating the abandoned edges, you tell me
that something has gotten into the
vegetable patch. It’s now all churned up
mud and unearthed bones. I separate stems
from flowers to put them out of their misery
as you dance to the funeral march.

Originally published in Mayhem Literacy Journal 2021, p. 171