Postcards you sent and gifts you gave,
Flowers you watered and curtains you washed,
All pictures of you and all your letters to me
Inch from every corner of the house
Into the middle of my drawing room.
Even a washed sock, the one we could not find,
Comes to light from its long-term haven
To enlists in this reluctant, odd army
That will never go into a battle again.
Then, though it is a shame, the plaster
And bricks, in large groups, all follow suit.
Roof, the last armament, collapses and covers it all.
A match is struck
And all is set on fire.
As it goes up in flames
My body, once so tenderly caressed by you,
Mounts the pyre and moves no more.
All traces of you must disappear.