‘It’s complicated.’

          Yes. It is, isn’t it I laugh.

   There is such complication in hatred...

But I wash my hands 

      Without another word.



The fog hangs in dishevelled rags,

   Pinned from wall to wall 

   Of the little kitchen.

        Talking doesn’t do anything. 



My conscience crouches alone in the corner 

   And screams what I could 

never 

  voice aloud,

Wringing her desperate hands 

and stamping the floor 

    To send tremors bouncing off of the walls.





At night, I lie in bed 

    And imagine what I would have told them.

        I, 

        the imagined voice of reason.

        Dreaming peace-keeper of the masses.



I wish up situations, 

   In which I gather the scraps of the family 

And tie them in my arms.



Morning light brings little to the feud. 

   Only fresh resentment, 

   Humming with the kettle 

   And adding colour to the steam.



The fog droops lower than before, 

Skimming the milk of my cereal.

        

    But then it happens. 

  

  By lunch, 

       I needn't duck; 

       the fog strains on tip-toes, 

       unable even to reach the water jug.

From the corner

    my conscience is silenced,

busy 

  following the exchange of unsaid words

   and the few that pass their lips 

are strangely powerful. 



      I breathe in 

The crispness of the clearing air.

    Laughter 

makes the lamps flare

to brighten the clearing room. 

    The joke?

       I wasn’t listening. 

I am exhaling stale air.

   I am laughing to myself.

               As I watch the scraps 

               Gather themselves

And smile.