Saturday's child

She's wearing my
slippers because
her feet were cold,

when the doorbell
splits her life once
more;

I cover my ears, not
wanting to hear the
door click shut

or their voices fade
in the silence that
follows.

On my lap, her puzzle
book, open at a page
we never finished,

now her eyes, his
eyes, watch from her
school photograph

as I crawl into bed
still holding the book,
and curl like a foetus,

to lie there bleeding,
until she comes again
next Saturday,

calling me Mummy -
wearing my slippers
to keep her feet warm.