Catherine Sadler
The Nightstand
Victorian house. Downstairs
at the back, this one-bedroom flat.
Chipped lilac walls.
It’s raining.
In a gloom,
soft and smelling of geranium,
I soak in the words of strangers.
The heating comes on.
Quiet fingers fumble
the oak veneer of the bedside table,
spread smooth and solid,
to check the time.
And my keys, inhaler, the books
on top of each other -
a small twist to see the spines.
Close my eyes.
Remember buttons undone,
taking long boots off,
a leaning tumble into bed.
Knot my fingers in the air -
this warm despair.
Feel what happened when
a hundred or fifteen years ago
anywhere.
Pick any time.
Find me in a rented room
reaching for my things, a glass of water,
and a short burst of shame.
Page(s) 35
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