Past ten, she has the desk lamp

in my study lit, to lure me

like a moth, she taunted,

home. Through the saplings

of Sophia Gardens, I see

the light prick darkness

like a spiteful eye.

She meets me on the landing

still in black—gaunt hand

resting on the newel post's

carved artichoke. Did I not also hold

the stillbirth in my palm

before they wrapped it in a pall

no bigger than my handkerchief?

I loathe her pallor, hate the acrid

odour when I douse the lamp.