By Pat G
Then there are other rooms,
without voices and coddled babies
and the soft rind of nursing;
spaces for dust, and warping boards,
where you hear the chilling house groan.
There are drawers wedged in disuse,
browning receipts and forgotten letters.
Sweat and grease have blackened
the arms of a favourite chair.
Sweetness clings in the memory
of warm neck folds;
curdled and lost.