Becky Kingsnorth is a London poet, holding onto words and phrases like mantras, and writing mostly on the Underground on the way to work.
I found the tie, hung where you left it
When the hearse arrived I went a little deaf.
After, our house smelled of chewed bread,
wasted breath; speaking to me, about you.
It has not been so long that you have gone
entirely. There are pockets of air here, still,
that are yours. I sit, breathe lightly. Wait.