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Jessica Penrose

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The Blue Cloak

She knows the early signs –
when he starts to notice
how many dead flies
there are at the window;
when he leaves
the morning paper unread
by his breakfast tray,
and catches the later,
less busy, train.

She is on her guard then.
Switches off the TV
when he comes in,
keeps her conversation simple.
She cancels dinner parties,
makes excuses to friends.
Puts pillowcases on the spare bed.

Sometimes it passes quickly.
He will come out into the garden
and sit, watching her planting seeds
or bending to pull dandelions
up from the root. They will talk –
about the weather, or a film
he’d like to see – and she
will let her eyes take in
the softening contours of his face.

More often, she loses track
as the weeks pass.
Keeps to the edges
of the house, the radio
turned down low.
She may even
invent
a foreign holiday,
hide the car
in the garage,
leave the curtains drawn.

 

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