Member-only story
Two People
There is cracked china in the sink.
Ornate cutlery once saved for special
occasions. Mustard oil and smears of
grease. Half eaten chicken legs.
Okra curry untouched on
the salty ceramic.
Takeaway boxes with tucked lapels
sit on the counter. Full of basmati rice
a forensic investigator would find
mildly interesting.
What happened here?
More clues peep out of the glass shards
on the aged oak table. Gravy stripes
shimmer down the wallpaper. Tapeworms
dissolving in the sliver of
someone’s blood.
It could be mine. It could be hers.
Both bled tonight.
Spoils of yet another war
on the daily battlefield we call
dinner.
Our blood matches in colour.
It is the only thing we
still have in common.
Different
rooms and different beds.
Identical ghosts in the regret we leave
uneaten at every meal. Okra fingers
point and accuse. The chicken limps…
