Poetry By
Krishan Coupland
Published on: 1/18/2013
Housemate
We knew him by the things he left: crumbs of himself, dishes mouldering in the sink and humid walls. A smell like burned bread. He was more his shadow than his shadow, padding sock-softened feet in 3AM quiet. Click-prang of toast, glub of coffee. And sobs, sometimes. Often. Which we all ignored.
Published on: 1/17/2013
Tick
When I cough, hard, lungs rattling, cogs and tiny springs burst out, plip like spittle in the foam-scummed sink. My joints tick, tight as mousetraps. I spill coffee, break plates, ruin cheques a dozen times over. At night, my fingers clamp tight on the duvet and won't let go. Being clockwork, one aches to be human. To sleep, to never need winding, to have a heartbeat, and dreams.
|