All day, you scurry about with your little net,
like a hunter of moths, things of darkness,
duplicitous fire. You are diligent
in your efforts. You search them down
and slaughter them on the spot, steadfast and efficient.
The house hums with your work. Their black blood
is scentless. You scrub it from the floors.
The wood wears thin. I rest on the sofa.
You bring me lemon water. You wrap me in blankets.
I am only warm when you hold me.
All night, the wind slathers the house
in wet, throws leaves like the plumage
of tropical birds at the windows.
You sleep, so I become the one who hunts.
I keep myself awake by speaking your name.
Waking, you say I’m pale, my eyes
are bruised by my vigils.
I am earning my place here. Some day
I will deserve you. My body quivers,
waiting for your flame.
Kitty Coles has been writing poetry since she was a child but only submitting it for publication in the last few years. Her poems have appeared in magazines including Mslexia, Iota, Obsessed With Pipework, Brittle Star and The Interpreter’s House.