November in Wales is a clammy beast
dripping chill rain: at night, disconsolate
it rattles the house, screaming;
our grey farm road in the early hours
is a stripe on its back oozing cold sweat
hedgerows of stinging nettles and brambles
its bony stickles - its drool runs down my neck
as I stand waiting for the school bus.
I kissed an American boy in England this summer
before my family moved to this new country
and he writes still, though we won’t meet again.
I am stuck here with this other, terrible kind of contact:
you by the window in your white dress, dissolving
sobbing as though your heart would break.
Why do you cry? It won’t solve anything.
I study physics at my desk by your window
write letters to the friends dropping back
listen to the rain beat down on the cowsheds.
I try to sleep sitting upright with the light on.
I hate being able to hear you! You’re dead!
All your sobbing won’t stop you fading away.
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