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Shireen Shaikh

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Insomnia

If only you would come home
    to our empty flat.
For so long
    I have lived in this unfurnished space
keeping up your half of the rent
    in case you simply forgot where I was
or needed time,
    like the man on the radio
who lost his memory for three months
    then returned
to a note on the mirror
    explaining the time-slip.

I am down to the last rations
    of when we cooked together
or sat up reading late,
    I dare not play music
because the trace of your vibration is so
                                                          faint,
    I light candles
waiting for a power-cut.
    I give you lilies in my sleep
but when I wake
    there are boxes on your pillow
tied in ribbons.
    My gifts pile up against me
like possessions
    you will not share.

What to do?
I must leave in the middle of the night,
a sleepwalker while the body dreams on.

Before deciding
I speak to your mother
as if we had a prodigal son in common,
her voice says you are not coming back,
you never did to her.
Somehow speaking to her makes it easier
to steal away in the early hours,
it helps me pack everything.

I shut the door,
leave the keys under the mat
and get into my car.

The body’s dream wears off
and the first traffic
appears on the roads.

As the days pass
I picture a pile of letters
in our cold flat,
something unanswered accumulating.

 

Page(s) 72-73

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