By Anne Casey
I feel them everywhere
the ones who left
the thin girl shivering
in the dark cupboard upstairs
when I reach
to put away the towels;
the strange fruit swinging
inside the wardrobe I avoid,
that wasn't even there
when they came.
They find me
in dark places,
slipping in,
seeking out
the bride in anglaise lace
all aglow at the altar,
who followed me home
to show her blooming bruises
and her crushed throat.
Such small hands,
so white and hopeful,
wanting to be touched
gently
yearning for
a soul to see them
for who they would have been.
I feel them everywhere,
the ones who left
a piece of themselves behind.