I write her a postcard to tell her
how I am. Not a real postcard—
the back of a coffee-ringed photo
of the pair of us, the same lemon dresses,
pecking ice cream cones on the wall
in the wild chill of Tenby.
In the mornings the bullish sun
heaves through everything, shatters
the greasy mirror, sours the laundry
with daylight I do not ask for.
A bottle of stolen make-up
left dribbling on the sink.
A towel sags on the doorframe
and I suck my pen trying to think.
Here, the windows have been locked
since she swung them out,
chain-smoking into the breeze.
A remembered ribbon of chemical blues
as I write my first sentence,
I’m doing fine
and do not mention
the housefly buzzing, hysterical,
butting its skull to get out.