It’s the space that happens
between a greeting
and a follow-up question
to a conversation you’ve barely heard,
a distance from here
to the kitchen table,
a ghost, drawn in by the smell
of cooking eggs and toast
the burning smell
familiar and also lonely.
It’s the voices upstairs,
just outside the door.
As a scientist, how could you
have experimented on yourself
without expecting side effects?
The invisible woman just doesn’t
want to be an afterthought,
the waft of bacon air
escaping as the door closes.
Melcontents 