It was like the stutter of trains at the corner crossing up the road near the old cemetery,
noticing the sound too late and taking note not to dream too much noise, not to dream
of what is only hinted.
It was like an almanac weather report, the last day of thunder and rain, no sleet, no hail
slippery as a half remembered dream, this time at five a.m. you’re taking off your watch.
I know what this means.
It was like the warmth of your arm, and then the contrast of all that made-in-the-shed
furniture, the mirror removed from the square dresser, taking the position of your
It was like the dampness of my skin, freshly showered sometime after midnight your
voice in a message I read you are much more to me than a weekend girl. Before that, the
pool of reluctance.
It was like Heathcliff wandering with the history of lingerie in a collection of catalogues
captured in a book made cheap, meaningless after its return, dumped in my spare room.
It cracks the chalice and chips the silver plate.
It was like another blown light bulb and the candles all blown out. I’m another grown
woman hiding her frightened girl-child and the only thing I hope is to be more like
Charlotte, less like Jane.