She was the sort of person

She was the sort of person
behind whom a door never closed forever.

It was always on the latch, on the jar,
in case she would think to turn around
or a cry would call her back.

But now the door is closed forever
and locked and bolted by another hand
with we remaining hammering on the metal
and she silent beyond.


Seventeen is my lucky number.
It is how old I was when
that thing
happened and look
who’s laughing now.

My lucky colour is bright red.
It’s not my favourite but it is the colour of
that thing
the colour that stays in my head.

You are my lucky person.
You found me one night after
that thing
happened and since then – well, you know.