The slight tremor
at the corners of her lips
plastered onto the wallpaper,
the curve of her spine descending
into the netherworld of my fears –
but she, she was fearless,
she moved with the earthlessness
of dolls caught sleepwalking
at midnight, in the sickened
wake of children who
get scolded for lying.
She was the house
without the angel,
but with an attic of mislaid keepsakes.
The stream of her hair flowed dreamwise,
tangled in my lashes – there it was
that I first drowned, unpursued
by the weight of a conscience.