Market Cold

You woke up one morning 

and could no longer see your hipbones.

You took every single pair of mittens, 

your bicycle helmet, cherry coloured curtains.

I found sandwich crusts and dust, 

a nude picture of you 

taped underneath your third drawer.                                   



The day you left -

early morning in that yellow supermarket,

where faces always lined up perfectly 

with soup cans. 

This is where we had 

midnight shopping hour confrontation,

fluorescent lights and big hams 

our only witnesses. 



This was the last time I touched you - 

I cupped my hand over your mouth

because I didn’t want you to sneeze 

in the produce aisle. 

So we stood blocking the oranges,

my arm stretched across the shopping cart -

you always thought you didn’t have freckles,

but I saw one, right then, above your shirt collar.

© Laura Clarke