Your writing was also your fear,
At times it was your terror, that all
Your wedding presents, your dreams, your husband
Would be taken from you
By the terror’s goblins. Your typewriter
Would be taken. Your sewing-machine. Your children.
All would be taken.
This fear was the colour of your desk-top,
You almost knew its features.
That grain was like its skin, you could stroke it.
You could taste it in your milky coffee.
It made a noise like your typewriter.
It hid in its own jujus –
Your mantelpiece mermaid of terracotta.
Your coppery fondue pan. Your linen. Your curtains.
You stared at these. You knew it was there.
It hid in your Schaeffer pen –
That was its favourite place. Whenever you wrote
You would stop, mid-word,
To look at it more closely, black, fat,
Between your fingers –
The swelling terror that would any moment
Suddenly burst out and take from you
Your husband, your children, your body, your life.
You could see it, there, in your pen.
Somebody took that too.