Sardines

Normally, you can tell.
Now, I am not supposed to be here.

Usually: the duvet would be flung theatrically across the bed,
proclaiming: I’ve been slept in; bra hung from a lamp shade,
knickers on the handle swinging, as if slung, in a hasty strip.

Not now. I am not here.
That is what she’s meant to think.

So I have filled the cupboard with raw silk slips from Asia,
stacked my sequined shoes two shelves high, stubbed
incense out in the sink, shoved candles in a black bin liner.

I can hear the thud as I hit the bottom of the bag,
feel the key in my pocket. I have locked the smell of me
in that cupboard. I have left my clothes. Kimono sleeves
reach down miserably for the gap of light at the door.

I will sleep in a hotel of indifference
with tight unacquainted sheets,
where I feel nothing for the walls
and they nothing for me.