At Home

The rain comes in sheets
across the perfect view.
It matches the tears

in your brain. There's the smell
of roast pumpkin, potatoes,
green beans. Your mother

is pulling the legs off
a chicken, arranging
the stuffing on a plate.

Your sister joins her face
to her boyfriend's face.
There's a heart on your plate,

you are trying to take
a bite out of it. At night
you dream bright dreams,

that stick to you
like wet sheets. You wake
in the long, black room,

slap the wall, until
you find the switch,
that floods the room

– 107 –

with yellow light.
You pull the blankets
up to your chin,

watch the white walls,
until you realise
where it is that you are.