The night he makes her sleep on the floor

she curls blue and shivering like a newborn
abandoned at someone’s door. She holds screams

in her fists while he snuffles in his sleep. The seconds
tick in her head and she wears the hours like the train

of a wedding dress, drags them to the kitchen, rests her head
on the table, like the remains of something half-eaten.

Still he sleeps, while her legs ache with lactic rage. She lies
in the empty bath,  cradled by whiteness, lets the darkness
 
bruise her, washes him  from her face with handfuls
of moonlight.  Her shadow-self slides
 
through homeless streets, crawls inside a window pane
on an empty train, hardens to a cold reflection. Sleep comes,
 
a welcome death.  He wakes to find her rigid like a corpse,
glances over her as he leaves for work.



*Karen Dennison: “I've had poems published in South, Orbis and The New Writer and I have a book of poems coming out next year with Indigo Dreams.”