your departure has the weight of ash
no longer carrying your fate,
I return to my old shape
days hold their same complexities
but night has become startlingly simple –
rucked sheets, wooden bed-frame –
there’s no need to believe in anything else
how is it that you ever fit
inside these walls? inside this time?
I was never a promise –
my hands, my breasts, my breathing –
are sovereign and whole
© Sarah Whiteley
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