In my bathroom
your toothbrush still in its cup
and beneath it lurks a dark and sinister poem,
the kind that looks over my shoulder when I
pick at tiled walls in a slow fury.
In my bedroom
your image trapped behind glass
the one that makes me think of David Bowie
and coiled on your face the oily poetry
of a thousand drunken thumbprints
In my kitchen
the remnants of your last meal
scrawled in syrup and toasted breadcrumb-braille
and in the rattle of the fridge
a poem that speaks itself loudest at night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem