Not again

by Natalie Whittaker

When I came home that night you were raving
to the shipping forecast in the kitchen,
moving with the grace of a broken puppet
and wearing the hair of the dog; his brown fur.
I said you bring me peace like an earthquake.
You turned on the smashed-up tiles and said watch
what happens when one person screams at night
then screamed at the night. The whole city screamed back;
echoes smacking around cars and lampposts.
Only the shaved dog stayed silent. I knew
in the morning the sparrows would drop eggshells
like our thoughts all snappish and empty,
and somewhere a fox was gargling acid
and fishponds reflected the obvious stars.