The Wasting Game ~ Phillip Gross
12
She left home months ago.
Somehow we never noticed.
She was going solo
as a conjuror;
the egg we found rotting
in the body-folds in the sofa;
caked wads
of tissues in the bin with weetabix
compacted in them like the Mob’s
car-crusher sandwiches;
potatoes spirited away
with one pass of the baggy-wristed
sweater she draped
on her bones. (What applause
when she whips it off one day
and she’s gone!) Co-ordination
slipping now, caught out -
fraud, fraud! -
she plays the cheapest trick of all.
A toothmug of tap water,
sixty paracetomol.
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