A little thing
Oh our love, it was little like a green apple,
held close until it slipped buttery through fingertips
then we scoured the floor on hands and knees calling it back.
It did not reply but you found it under the sofa by an ill-fitting sock.
We took it, trying to appease, picking off the hairs
stroking it softly and muttering somethings into its ears and mouth:
Remember, you came to us, we made you, you exist.
Don’t cry, look at us, don't tell us the broken truth, tell us those record lies.
It was angry that we’d let it get away. It said nothing
but accused us by poking of negligence. We did not like this.
Oh no, we refused to leave it then. When it wanted rest we
force-fed caffeine down its thin throat
propped its eyes open with tiny cocktail sticks, coaxed it to roll
through the motions. When it was hoarse we made it sing the songs
it used to know and when it stopped breathing
we’d sigh relieved before pumping it back into the room.
It would have hated us but it could not. It just shrank
till it was the size of a stationary pea and the touch of it left
a bitter sheen on our skin. Yes
we were sorry.
When we woke to discover it gone for good, we wept: guilty jailer tears,
Oh our love, it was so little.