Mari de Beer
The day after I killed myself,
the neighbour still kissed his wife on the deck before he left for work, your car still had the smell
of spilled milk on the back seat from the day when all my questions arrived, mother still sat solidly
in her chair with the new crochet pattern she tried to copy, the baker on the corner of the next street
still closed his doors at noon and motionlessly stared at the sky, the blue and white delft your
mother inherited still glared at me from behind the locked glass panels of the cabinet I never
wanted.
The day after I killed myself,
the clock which father brought home from the place we never asked about still ticked the seconds
like mother’s anxious breath, the silent cavalier still laughed behind his curled moustache and
elaborate costume with his belittling gaze, the bathtub still collected messages, the entrance hall was still dormant, the rats still whispered, the house was still dark, and the bathroom clammy and the
toilet seat still stained.
The day after I killed myself,
you still walked with someone else’s feet leaning against the wind, the other woman still floated in
the gloom, the showerhead was still high enough for the way your shoulders were shaking, the
hands still scratched at the flesh under the flaking skin, the skeletons still hung from the trees in the
driveway, no one left and no one came, and the wounded eye was still me behind the door.
The day after I killed myself,
I left the bed on the pavement, like a whore.
2020
Featured at the Red Wheelbarrow on 3 February 2022
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