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by Ruth Quinlan
There is little of me here now.
The final days of sweating, bleaching
erase all but coffee rings on the table,
blushes of wine on the couch,
Blu Tack stains on walls from seven calendars.
This slate has been wiped clean of me
and I know it will be just months
before the details start to slip –
the slam of the kitchen door,
the jolt of the shower pump,
the hum of the old fridge at night
when everything else has fallen quiet.
Those tiny percussions of home
that someone else must learn
while I begin leaving my mark
pressing ochre hand-prints
against a different cave wall
to prove that I’m still here
but there instead.